To Serve and Protect
by Dusha
Summary: The threat of tragedy brings to light many previously unknown stories and creates new ones. In their business, everyone lives on secrets and lies. The worst, however, are those kept among friends. Chapter 8 posted.
1. Chapter 1

To Serve and Protect

By: Dusha

Disclaimer: _Hogan's Heroes _and all associated names, plots, etc. belongs to Paramount and CBS.

_Chapter 1: A Problem Arises_

In which timing is everything and it's always bad.

Snatching his hat from a rusted nail on the wall, Colonel Robert Hogan yawned dramatically and opened the door from his office into the common room of Barracks 2. It was T-minus-10 minutes until morning roll call and the internal clocks of some of his more AM-oriented men had them shuffling towards readiness in various states of wakefulness.

"Good morning, _mon Colonél_," Lebeau, always one of the early risers, greeted him and brought forward a half-filled cup of ersatz coffee. A more substantial serving would have to wait until after roll call but Hogan knew he desperately needed the caffeine if he wanted to parlay with Klink at six o'clock in the morning.

A quick glance around the room showed the Senior POW that he would need all the energy he could muster to dissipate any suspicion from his men's 'midnight stroll' the night before. Carter and Newkirk, still deeply asleep despite the growing ruckus in the barracks, had engaged in a very fruitful night of mischief from which they were still recovering. A smudge of soot visible on Carter's right cheek, barely seen above the thread-bare blanket he had snuggled into, stood testament to the success of their primary objective.

Hogan's musings were, as usual, rudely interrupted by the boisterous, but never unexpected, entrance of Sergeant Hans Shultz shouting, "_Raus, raus, _everybody _raus_!" Pounding on the bottom of Newkirk's bunk he continued, "Roll call!"

"Shultz!" Newkirk complained, continuing the same routine they went through every morning, "Why can't you let us sleep in for once or, even better, get _fräuline_ Helga to wake us up?"

"With a kiss!" Someone from the other side of the room fantasized.

"Or at least give us an alarm clock!" moaned Carter from the bottom bunk as he dragged his blanket over his face, conveniently hiding the black soot. "One that we can turn off and ignore."

As much as he enjoyed the exchange, Hogan knew that some things were non-negotiable when trying to avoid suspicion. Throwing a friendly arm around the portly guard's shoulders (or what he could reach of them) he said, "Sorry, Shultz, the boys had a long night. You know how cranky Newkirk can be when he doesn't get his beauty sleep."

"And why did they not get enough sleep?" Shultz glanced around the room with dread growing in his stomach. He had a feeling he was about to see something he did not want to see.

Hogan smirked. "Do you really want to know?"

"No! I want to know nothing! Nothing! Colonel Hogan, please, just get your men out for roll call."

"Anything for you, Shultz," smiling his trademark swashbuckler grin, Hogan ushered the sergeant towards the door. "We'll be out as soon as we're decent."

"Decent, _Colonél_? Them?" Lebeau quipped from beside the wood stove. "I think you ask too much."

"Oh, you're a ruddy riot early in the morning, Louis."

"_Oui_, I know. I should get you up earlier in the morning to more fully appreciate my humor," the Frenchman ribbed his friend.

Newkirk grunted in response, knowing that he could not win a battle of wits against the perky Frenchman before noon. Instead, he focused on grabbing his trousers from their perch over the end of his bunk, jumping down from his bed without landing on Carter's head and slipping his pants on under his nightshirt. Substituting his striped nightshirt for his moth-eaten turtleneck and short jacket, Newkirk scrounged around for his cover while commenting, "Hey, where's Kinch?"

"Probably still down in the tunnel," Carter replied, stomping into his boots and lacing them tightly. "When we gave him the Düsseldorf troop movements from 'Little Boy Blue' he wanted to encode and send them last night." He paused in the middle of double-knotting his left boot and looked up. "Hey Newkirk, did you notice Kinch acting a little strange last night?"

The Englishman paused, looking thoughtful. "The poor bloke hasn't slept in more than two days, what with preparing for the mission, organizing the distraction and sending the plans. But now that you mention it, he was looking a bit more peaked than normal."

"Well, there's no rest for the weary until after roll call," Hogan zipped up his bomber jacket in anticipation of the bitter German winds. "Lebeau, get Kinch. Promise him that we'll set him up for an 8-hour nap as soon as our illustrious commandant is done."

Newkirk opened the door as his fellow corporal triggered the bunk-hatch and slid down the ladder to the tunnels below. He smiled back at his Colonel over the cries of '_Shut the door, Newkirk! Stop letting the cold air in!'_ "I wouldn't make any promises you can't keep, Gov'nor. I don't think Kinch has had that much sleep since the day he got here." Carter nodded sagely in agreement as he stood.

Hogan laughed at the good natured rub, but the truthfulness of the statement could not be denied. The only time he had seen his second in command not working on the day-to-day coordination of the operation was when he was writing to his family, usually by the dim glow of a dark-lamp after lights out. Even when he was reading his indulgent mystery novels down in the radio room the sergeant's mind was shattered into a dozen pieces vying for his attention. Parts were with the men outside the wire, Goldilocks in London, and focused on catching the first taps of an incoming message from the Underground. If anyone deserved a break, it was James Ivan Kinchloe. After morning _appell_, Hogan promised silently, he would get it.

"All right, gentlemen, time to put in our appearances," he announced. "Make sure you put your dress shoes on."

The undercurrent of tired laughter his comment elicited was abruptly interrupted as Lebeau clambered up their secret ladder noisily. One glance of the Frenchman's distraught face changed the atmosphere of the barracks completely. Taking five quick steps across the room to the trap door, Hogan squatted down and put a hand on the obviously shaken man's shoulder. "Louis, what's wrong?"

"It's Kinch, _Colonél_," Lebeau gasped as he took a hold of Hogan's arm to steady himself. "Something is wrong!"

Without waiting for an explanation, Hogan immediately began issuing orders. Of all the times for something to go awry, two minutes before roll call was not the best. "Merrick, get everyone outside and tell Newkirk to stall for time. Do whatever it takes. We need time to get Kinch outside."

"Yes, sir." It was a testament to his men's confidence in his quick thinking that they asked no questions. With common purpose they headed en masse towards the door.

"Scovel, stay here. I may need you if I can't get Kinch out of the tunnels by myself."

The bulky Norwegian assented, a private first class in that country's resistance who was shot down three weeks prior. He was just beginning to get a sense of the secret operation coordinated at the POW camp and he knew he wanted to be part of _Stalag 13's_ organization. He thought it would help him regain the sense of stability he felt with his previous underground unit and the feeling of safety that came from having comrades who were closer than brothers.

Nearly tripping down the ladder behind Lebeau in his haste and concern, Hogan demanded, "What happened?"

"I began to worry when he didn't answer my call," Louis explained, "but I only thought he had fallen asleep, considering what Newkirk and Carter said. When I went to wake him up though," Lebeau's voice rose in pitch and intensity as his emotions grew, "he wouldn't. His face felt so hot, _Colonél_…."

Rather than reply, Hogan sprinted down the tunnel, grabbing a support beam to swing himself around a corner, and catapulted into the radio room. One look at his radioman stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh Kinch…."

The casual observer might look at the scene before him and think only that the over-extended African American had finally succumbed to his exhaustion, laid his head on the radio table and fallen asleep. In his fatigue, others might reason, he carelessly knocked his Morse key to the ground. But the Colonel knew his second in command better than that. Kinch would rather spend 30 days of quality time in the cooler than risk breaking his Morse key. It was too valuable as their tenuous link to the outside world and the genesis of all of their success.

Closing the distance between himself and his subordinate, Hogan gently shook the radioman's shoulder. "Kinch? Kinch! Wake up, Kinch!"

"Kinch, _mon ami_, please! Open your eyes!"

Time was running out, Hogan knew, even as he placed two fingers on Kinch's neck to find a feathery pulse on overdrive. Heat radiated from the black man and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. "Kinch!" he tried again in his most authoritative command voice, "This is a direct order—wake up!"

"Colonel Hogan…? Wha …?" A muzzy, almost unidentifiable voice crawled out from underneath Kinch's collapsed form.

"You're very sick, Kinch, but we need you out at roll call," Hogan didn't waste time mincing words. "Do you think you can make it up the ladder?"

Rather than wasting valuable energy with a response, Kinch focused his mental fortitude on trusting his commanding officer and his physical strength on pushing himself up and away from the table—before promptly collapsing.

"I—I'll be okay, Colonel," Kinch mumbled weakly, even as Hogan knelt down and maneuvered his shoulder under his subordinate's arm. In the back of his mind, the Colonel acknowledged how strange it felt to support this perpetually strong, confident man. Lebeau wrapped his own arm around his friend's waist, helping to guide him unsteadily to the base of the ladder. Three sets of eyes, two clear, one blurry, glanced up at Scovel's concerned expression.

Pushing Kinch forward, Hogan spared another look at the sergeant's face. Beads of sweat were stuck in his mustache and his eyes kept blinking frantically as if trying desperately to focus on something. "I hate to tell you this, Kinch, but you have to make it through roll call. If you're missing it won't take a genius to realize you might have something to do with last night's sabotage. Klink might even figure it out. That means the minute you resurface you get a complementary one way ticket to visit the Gestapo."

"I know, Colonel. I'll make it."

No hesitation, no debate, nothing but acceptance of the mission—so like Kinch. _Stalag 13_'s radioman grabbed the first rung of the ladder at eye-level and, with Hogan close behind to catch him in case he should fall, began to climb. Though it felt like a like a small eternity, in reality it took only a few seconds for Kinch to haul himself up high enough for Scovel to reach his arms. Grasping the black man's forearms securely, Scovel used every ounce of strength in his burly arms and back to drag Kinch out of the secret tunnel. With a resounding _thump_ they landed in a tangle on the floor. _'Thank God for the strength of the Aryan race_,' the PFC thought bitterly as he got to his feet. _'Hitler'd go ballistic if he knew I was using it to save someone from an "inferior race".'_

Hogan and Lebeau scampered up the rest of the ladder and, despite their almost laughable difference in size and strength, the French corporal offered a hand to Kinch to help him up. "Come, Kinch, I will help you."

"Thanks, Louis," Kinch could offer no more than an exhausted smile.

Herding everyone outside was not difficult and within another thirty seconds the four of them took their rightful places in the prisoner's line up. "Look after him, Carter," Hogan whispered as he walked by.

"You betcha, boy," Carter said, his worry overwhelming his usual awareness of the informality.

With difficulty Hogan turned his attention from his fellow Americans to the British non-com currently making a nuisance of himself by encouraging the men to pass the camp soccer ball over the frustrated heads of the Germans calling for order. "Oy! Over here, Douglas!"

"Newkirk, how many times have I told you not to play with the Krauts?" Hogan chastised. "You don't know where they've been."

Immediately, the Englishman settled down, catching something in the undercurrent of Hogan's voice despite his joking words. Shultz's relief was audible as he began to count the men who had finally stopped shuffling around like rambunctious schoolchildren. What he wouldn't give for the respect of the men that Colonel Hogan wielded!

As he trundled down the double line of men, counting as he went, the German sergeant debated with himself concerning weather or not he would question Hogan about his late arrival. "_Dreizen, Vierzen, Fumfzen_," he breathed. Looking up at Hogan he smiled, deciding that he would feign ignorance because everyone was there; in the end, that was the only thing that mattered to him. His smiled faltered, however, when he caught sight of his fellow sergeant, Kinchloe, standing behind the suave American commander. Though he considered his exposure to the demeanor of Africans (or so he considered Kinchloe to be) as limited, even he could discern that the man was suffering.

"Colonel Hogan," he whispered, "what is wrong with Sergeant Kinchloe?"

Knowing that Schulz meant to show nothing more than honest concern, Hogan answered truthfully, "He's sick, Shultz."

The portly German took a step back. "Is it something I could catch?"

"I don't know," Hogan admitted, "but…could you do me a favor, Shultz? Hurry things along here so we can get him back inside."

For once it sounded like a favor the Sergeant of the Guard could fulfill without eventually regretting it. "_Jawol_, Colonel Hogan. I will see what I can do." Turning towards the commandant's office he bellowed, "_Kommandant_ Klink!"

Whether he was already on his way or was summoned by Shultz, the supposed leader of _Stalag 13_ swung open the door to his office, slapped his riding crop under his arm, and marched down the stairs. "Repooort!"

"_Herr Kommandant_," Shultz saluted, "I beg to report that all prisoners are present and accounted for!"

"Yes, yes," Klink waved a gloved hand dismissively as he stood an appropriate distance away from the center of the Allied men, "Of course. That is because no one has ever escaped _Stalag 13_."

The men jeered and Hogan thought with a smile, _'That you know of,'_ Aloud he shouted, "Come on, Commandant. Can't we hurry this up? I think I left the iron on."

"_Oui_," Lebeau chipped in, "If I leave the_ pâté_ sitting too long it will completely ruin the consistency."

Shultz raised his eyebrows in interest while Klink fidgeted with his monocle in annoyance. With an air of superiority he reminded the assembled men, "You and your men have no where to be except where I tell you to be, Colonel Hogan. That's why you are prisoners and I am the commandant."

"Is that why it is?" Hogan feigned innocent surprise. "I thought we were here for the free room and board."

"Hogan…" Klink shook his hand threateningly.

A shuffling sound from behind him reminded Hogan that, for once, the daily sport of Klink-baiting was trumped in importance. Shifting his posture slightly he was able to catch a glimpse of Carter taking a step out of line to catch Kinch's arm before he could collapse again. The young sergeant looked close to tears with concern.

"Come on, Commandant," puffs of white escaped with his words into the cold air. "Can't we wrap this up early today? One of my men is sick and needs to be back inside."

Turning to his subordinate Klink demanded, "Is this true, Sergeant Shultz?"

"_Jawol_, _Herr_ _Commandant_." Shultz's eyes softened in sympathy as he looked down the line of men. "It is Sergeant Kinchloe."

Following Shultz's attention, Klink sauntered down the line of shivering prisoners, ready to berate Hogan for using a mild or completely false excuse of sickness as a ploy to truncate morning roll call. An hour in the brisk German air wasn't demanding very much. To cover the fact that he had no idea who the aforementioned Sergeant Kinchloe might be he asked, "And just where is this sick man of yours, Colonel Hogan? They all look fine to me."

Annoyed at Klink's disbelief, and ignoring the fact that there was certainly plenty of precedent for the _Luftwaffe_ man to distrust him, Hogan took a step aside to reveal the man under discussion.

"Colonel Hogan! What is wrong with this man?"

"I told you," Hogan's exasperation was palatable, "he's sick."

Klink pinched his chin thoughtfully as the gears in his mind sluggishly ground into motion. Despite his announcements to the contrary he did not have the natural animosity necessary to enjoy seeing the prisoners in his camp suffer, even if they were the enemy. Letting a smile break out on his face at his own benevolence he turned to Hogan and said, "Colonel, because I am a humanitarian I am going to shorten _appell_ today. Additionally," Klink pointed at the sky dramatically, "I will personally put in a call to the local hospital to set up an appointment for your man."

"Don't worry, Commandant, I'll make sure to tell the Protecting Powers about your generosity after Germany loses the war," the American replied, only half-jesting. Not only was Klink making a generous offer, but Hogan had decided a long time ago that he would argue for as much clemency as possible for Klink, Schultz, Langenscheidt, and many of the guards at _Stalag 13_ after the war. After all, without their help winning would have been much more difficult.

As these thoughts entered Hogan's mind, along with the fact that he was sure Klink would hold this incident of kindness over his head for a long time to come, his men were in motion. With a stony serious expression that only catastrophes brought out of him, Newkirk darted back to offer a hand to Carter in supporting their comrade, back inside.

"Guys, put Kinch on the bottom bunk in my office. That way we can keep an eye on him—we'll make a schedule so that someone is with him at all times." It went without saying that, in any other circumstance, Kinch would have been the one creating the schedule. "Lebeau, we need something to keep Kinch from becoming dehydrated. Someone, I don't care who, go get Wilson."

A chorus of 'yes, sir's followed him into his private room as the men instinctively scrambled to do what was necessary to take care of one of their own. Newkirk and Carter had already stripped the sergeant of his cap and fatigue jacket and were trying to force him to sit down as the colonel had instructed. The cold air must have shocked him into rallying slightly and he resisted their efforts weakly but emphatically.

"I'm fine guys," he protested.

Hogan sighed. There were very few times when his radioman was unreasonable, but when he was sick was apparently one of them. "No you aren't, Kinch. You were incoherent less than a half-hour ago—"

"Colonel, there's too much to do…"

"Nothing we can handle, right Carter?" Newkirk interrupted, finally pushing Kinch down to sit on the bunk forcefully. The English flyer held no delusions about the seriousness of the situation or the stubbornness of his friend's personality. If he needed to use a little force for Kinch's own good, he was willing to dispense it.

"You betcha!"

"You guy's can't—" the argument was interrupted when the black man grabbed his head in both of his hands and grimaced.

By this point Lebeau had also entered the room. He stood at the entrance of the room, a frightened expression on his face and the mug of hot, sweet tea shaking in his hands. He, even more than Carter, seemed to be the most disturbed about the situation. Rather than concentrating on his French subordinate, Hogan sat down on the bunk and put a hand on Kinch's shoulder. "What's wrong, Kinch? What's going on?"

"I don't know, Colonel," for a moment the four of them could hear a catch of uncertainty in his voice, "I…"

It was as far as Sergeant Kinchloe got before he slumped forward, unconscious.

Author's note: Any and all reviews are greatly appreciated. If anyone would like to beta the rest of this story (because it hasn't been yet, unfortunately), please leave a review.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2: The Bitter Truth_

In which Hogan learns a hard lesson about how things really work in an evil world, among other things.

It was only Hogan's arms around him that kept Kinch from falling to the floor again. Gently, he laid his subordinate down and pulled a meager blanket over him. In an attempt to keep himself and his men calm, even as they instinctively jerked forward to help, he said only, "Give him some air, guys. And can someone tell me where the hell Wilson is?"

"Here, Colonel." From behind Lebeau's frozen form, Wilson's brown eyes were calm as they swept over the scene before him. "Scovel filled me in as much as he could on the way over. Everybody out!" he ordered.

Looking over his shoulder, Carter protested, "But sir…!"

"You heard the doctor's orders," Hogan made sure to look directly into each of his men's eyes to make them understand that he brooked no argument. Newkirk nodded and went over to his American friend, plucking at his shirt to encourage him towards the door. Knowing that Carter was in good hands, Hogan focused on his shocked French corporal. Putting his hands on the shorter man's shoulders and giving them a gentle shake, Hogan said, "Come on."

Sharing a significant expression with Newkirk, the two of them led their charges to the common table in the middle of the barracks room. The rest of the men milled about, attempting to look busy while obviously concerned about their comrades. When the news of Kinch's condition spread everyone knew that Carter would take it hard. Lebeau's reaction, however, was completely unexpected.

An uneasy silence settled over the four. It was only broken when Lebeau spoke softly. "Someone should drink this tea."

Rationing, while not a serious issue for the prisoners, had instilled in all of them a distaste for wastefulness. Hogan silently took the mug from his subordinate's hands and took a lukewarm sip. He wanted to offer words of comfort, but his strength was in witticisms, not consolation. Silence began to eat up the air.

When hope and optimism were needed there was only person to turn to and this time he did not disappoint. "I suppose it's about time Kinch got sick," Carter said lightheartedly, looking up at the other men, "He's never been before."

"Never?" Hogan prompted, eager to encourage the diversion.

"At least, not since I've met him," Carter amended. "He probably got sick when he first came here like everybody else, though."

Warming up to the distractive conversation, Newkirk shook his head negatively. "You'd be wrong there, mate. I remember the first few months Kinch was here—before you and the Gov showed up. Louis and I have been here long enough to know that _everyone_ gets sick when they first get dumped here—it's in the water, I think. But Kinch never caught it somehow."

Hogan closed his eyes, remembering the second week after his arrival at _Stalag 13._ For three days he hadn't acted very commanding when he snapped at everyone who came close to him. Throwing up nearly constantly for 72-hours would do that to a person. He'd had company in his misery since Carter had come down with the same symptoms at the same time, and the knowing looks of the veteran POWs let him know that all would be forgiven when he recovered.

"If he wasn't so sick right now, I would hate him for not being sick before. That was awful." Hogan joked weakly.

"_Je suis d'accord, mon Colonél_," Lebeau looked up with a small smile on his face. "We were all jealous." Apparently, speaking about Kinch's resiliency was giving the Frenchman hope. Distracted by their memories, Hogan and his men were startled when Wilson opened the office's door and walked to the table. Anxious eyes followed his every move as he took one look at the contents of Hogan's cup, picked it up, and took a swig. He grimaced at the coldness of the contents but savored the sweetness of it.

Taking a deep breath, Wilson looked up at four concerned faces. "Let me clarify a few things for ya'll first," the doctor began with a hint of his stress-induced southern accent. "I'm a field medic. That means I know how to patch up boys who've got at least one limb too few or one hole too many. Diseases ain't my strong point. Secondly, know that I can't tell you _why_ Sergeant Kinchloe's ill. What I _can_ tell you are the symptoms of the illness and what we might be able to do to control them. Everything else is my best guess, and that may not be enough."

As hard as it was to hear, everyone was acutely aware of their lack of proper medical facilities and faculty. Erikkson, Manheim, Boulder, Ortiz—the names of the men buried under the trees outside the fence, facing westward towards their homes, would never leave Hogan's mind. "We understand," Hogan spoke for all of them.

"Good," Wilson took a deep breath. "Here's what we know. He's got a fever of over 100 degrees, but exactly how high it is I don't know. His shortness of breath, which he said is because his chest is being compressed in a vice, is making him lightheaded and woozy. He's also experiencin' migraine-type pains, accompanied by the classic impairment of vision, hearin' and cognitive skills."

Newkirk looked at the medic thoughtfully. "That doesn't sound life-threatening."

"Normally I'd agree with you," Wilson's calm country voice betrayed the seriousness of the words he was about to say. "But in here a simple disease can easily become somethin' we can't handle."

The tenuous optimism from before completely evaporated. Knowing that low morale wouldn't help the situation, Wilson switched on his bedside manner and continued, "Keepin' that from happenin' means carryin' on with what you were doin'. Keep him hydrated, warm, and rested. Our stock of antibiotics is limited and I ain't comfortable giving him anything without more information about what we're facin'—but I will if things get more serious."

"Hopefully it won't come to that," Hogan said. "We'll put Kinch on 24-hour watch."

Wilson nodded, rising from the table. "That's the best we can do right now. Let me see if there are any other magic tricks I can pull out of my hat after I take a closer look at my stock—but remember, no promises."

"We know, Wilson, and thanks," Hogan called after him as the doctor exited. Turning back to his sobered men he asked, "Who wants first watch?"

For the first time in recent memory, there were many enthusiastic responses to his request. Rather than trying to shift the responsibility onto Carter (which always backfired into his own coerced volunteering), Newkirk's voice was the first one the Colonel heard.

"I'll do it, Gov'nor."

"So will I."

"Me too, _mon Colonél_."

Their commanding officer nodded. "We'll take four hour shifts. Carter, you're first; Lebeau, second; Newkirk, third, and then anyone else who wants to step up," Hogan said, knowing that there would be not shortage of willing men. Kinch was a popular figure around camp, respected for his abilities and composure. "I'll take the night shift—it is my room after all."

Standing up, Hogan made a show of looking at his watch and arranged his expression into one of surprise as he saw what time it was. "0800 and we haven't had breakfast yet," he announced. "Lebeau, why don't you see if there is anything we can scrounge up that will at least be edible, if not actually good. Carter, don't burn down my office."

If the Frenchman realized that Hogan's words were a rather flimsy excuse to return to the barracks to their normal operation and distract his men from their sick compatriot, he didn't say anything. He and Carter rose, separating to begin on their respective tasks. When Newkirk pushed back from the table and began searching for the barrack's cutlery to help with the meal, Hogan sidled up to him to have a private word.

"After Carter's shift do you think you could think of something to keep his mind occupied?"

Newkirk grinned mischievously, "You mean something to distract him from thinking about Kinch? I'm already three steps ahead of you, sir. I was just thinking that today seemed like a perfect day to do inventory in the lab, seeing as how we've been fairly liberal with our firecrackers and such lately."

Hogan nodded, impressed but not surprised that the Englander had preempted his worries. It was obvious to anyone that Carter's big heart would bear a heavy burden as it wrung itself out in concern for his friend. It was also well known that Newkirk, with his Abbot-and-Costello friendship with the young American, had the talent to distract him. "Thanks, Newkirk."

"Anytime, Colonel. We've got to take care of each other after all."

The morning slowly settled into its normal pattern as breakfast was prepared, men shaved, and the light of the morning sun crept more and more persistently into the common room. Their meal was minimalist—toasted bread, butter, more coffee, and a few berries that Lebeau had turned into a bitter preserve. After cleaning his plate and handing it to Jameson, whose turn it was to brave the frigid rain barrel water to clean the dishes, Hogan frowned. Newkirk's comment from before breakfast resurfaced in his mind and reminded Hogan of the commandant's offer to arrange a hospital visit for his sick man. _'Better make sure that wasn't a lot of hot air,'_ he decided.

Taking the short trip across the compound, Hogan nodded politely to the guard on duty on the commandant's porch and let himself in the door. Planting a quick kiss on the top of Helga's head, he waltzed into Klink's office without announcement. It was just as well, considering that the used-and-abused German was on the telephone.

Pacing back and forth behind his desk as far as the cord would allow, Klink's voice reflected something that the American colonel heard directed at someone other than himself: aggravation. "Yes, sir. I understand, sir. But I don't think—yes, I—but I don't understand!"

Hogan could almost hear the voice on the other end of the line: _"You don't have to understand Klink. Just do what you're told."_

With a frustrated sigh, Klink's shoulders and countenance deflated. "Yes, sir. I will, sir." More half-heartedly than normal he collapsed into his chair and concluded the conversation with, "Yes, yes, heil Hitler."

It was a moment Hogan was almost remiss to disturb as he saw some kind of internal struggle waged across the commandant's face. Still, it was not his job to worry about the welfare of the German officer any more than necessary for the survival of his operation. Right now, his operation depended on the recuperation of his communications officer. That recuperation, in turn, could depend on Klink's ability to get him access to the medical facilities of a hospital.

"Sounds like there's trouble in paradise," he quipped.

"Oh, Hogan, I'm glad you're here," Klink replied tiredly. It confused Hogan—it seemed like the commandant hadn't even heard his wisecrack.

"Glad? I'm touched, Commandant. I didn't know you cared."

Klink sighed, took the monocle out of his eye and began to clean it obsessively. It wasn't often that he felt like he knew more about what was going on in Germany than Hogan did. This once, he wished that he still didn't. As much as he considered Hogan an enemy and enjoyed flaunting his captivity in his face, he respected the American's loyalty to his men. He would get no happiness from the words he was about to say.

"I just got off the phone with the chief of the hospital," Klink looked down at his desk, unable to meet Hogan's eyes as he delivered the news. "They have refused my request to send Sergeant Kinchloe in for diagnosis and observation."

Hogan froze in the middle of using one of Newkirk's techniques to liberate a few cigars from Klink's humidor. "What do you mean, 'refused'?" he demanded. "They've taken care of my men before."

"Yes, I know."

"Then why not this time?"

"It's for…biological reasons," Klink dodged.

Hogan slammed his hands down on the desk. "That doesn't make any sense! One of my men is sick. You send sick people to the hospital." Calming himself with some difficulty, the American focused on using his manipulative skills. "If Kinch has some kind of communicable disease, wouldn't you want him at a hospital rather than here? Just think about what kind of reputation you could get if this spreads. I can see the headlines now: 'Contagious Klink' Sent to the Russian Front for Crippling the Third Reich."

"T-The Russian Front?" Klink panicked. "Why do these kinds of things always happen to me?"

Hogan shrugged. "But imagine the headlines if you were responsible for stopping an epidemic of disease from spreading throughout the Reich through your quick and decisive action—action very befitting of a general."

"A general…." Now Klink's eyes took on a glassy sheen as he fantasized about a future full of money, prestige, women, safety and respect: the life of a general.

'_Focus, Klink, focus_!' Hogan wanted to scream, but he knew better. Instead, he simply said, "And all you have to do is send Sergeant Kinchloe to the hospital. Show some of that strength of command so becoming of a general."

The light of future glory died in Klink's eyes. "I cannot. I can tell you right now, Colonel Hogan, nothing a mere colonel can say will change that man's mind."

The edge of disgust in Klink's voice as he pressed his thin lips together prompted Hogan to inquire, "What is it, sir, really? There's more to this than you're letting on. Why is this chief medic suddenly so uptight about not seeing my men?"

There was no more avoiding it. "Colonel Hogan, if you wanted to send any other man they would take a look at him. Any other…" he paused awkwardly, "Aryan-looking man."

Hogan could not believe what he had heard. Unable to control himself, he exploded. "Are you saying you're refusing humanitarian treatment based on race?!"

"I'm not, Colonel Hogan," Klink corrected. "The chief medical officer is." If he hadn't been so personally disturbed about the situation he might have commanded his prisoner to calm down. As it was, he couldn't blame Hogan for his outburst.

As much as Klink was aware of the rampant ethnocentrism and racism in the Nazi Party, he did not condone it. His rebellion against that aspect of the _Fürer's _Nazi code was part of the reason that he had been chosen to command a POW camp. Other _Luftwaffe _officers refused to associate with 'lesser races' while he had no problem with them.

In a moment of impeccable timing, Schultz burst through the door, his rifle wagging back and forth to cover the room. "_Herr Kommandant_! I heard yelling! What is going on?"

"The Germans are acting especially German today," Hogan groused, his fury diffusing only slightly as he realized losing his temper with Klink and Schultz would accomplish nothing.

"What does he mean by that?" Schultz leaned over to ask his commanding officer conspiratorially. Knowing that his Sergeant at Arms would bear the worst of the prisoners' animosity from the news, Klink explained to him the situation. With every additional word Schultz's eyes grew and his frown deepened. He had grown fond of the men he guarded, especially those of Barracks 2_,_ and had always respected the solemnity of Sergeant Kinchloe. Many times the American had encouraged him to call him by his nickname, but there was something about the dignity the black man carried himself with that made Schultz disinclined.

Hearing of the hospital's rejection again only infuriated Hogan more. Walking towards the door he commented bitterly, "You know, Commandant, I was honestly starting to think you Krauts weren't so bad. Then you go and do something like this. It reminds me of why my people are trying to kill yours—and why I don't feel bad when one of you die."

"Hogan…" But there was nothing Klink could do as his Senior POW stormed out the door. Looking up at Schultz, his superior officer was startled to see what appeared to be tears glistening in the sergeant's eyes. "Schultz, what's wrong?"

"Do you think he meant it?" Schultz sniffled. "Do you think he really hates us that much?"

The appropriate response, of course, would be to put Schultz on report for fraternizing and sympathy with the enemy. But the cruel words, and the venom behind them, had hurt the commandant as well and he was not in the habit of putting himself on report. "I don't know," he finally replied honestly. "If there is one thing you should learn about war, Schultz, it's that you never know who your enemy might be. Never."

After his dramatic exit from the _kommandantur_ Hogan knew it was not a good idea to immediately return to the barracks. He needed time to settle down, to control his anger and frustration, and come up with a contingency plan in case one was needed. The only thing that would make the bitter pill of Klink's news palatable to his men would be the knowledge that they could handle it—that he had a plan.

Walking around the perimeter of the compound brought a peculiar sense of focus to his thoughts as he witness his men engaged in the benign routine of any other day in any other _stalag_. There was Capricelli, master of forgery thanks to his past as a restorer of historical artifacts, wringing out the laundry of Barracks 5. Jerrods, a fourth generation coal miner from eastern Kentucky and first generation tunnel foreman, was trying to explain the finer points of American football to a bewildered Aley, whose upbringing on the fringes of the Australian outback made him an excellent survivalist and tracker in woods infested with German patrols.

They were all good men. Men who deserved to escape this hell-hole. Men who had the superior sense of duty that bound them to use their talents not only to protect their close comrades but also fellow Allies they had never met before and who would reap the benefits of a trip they could never take.

The idea flitted across his mind that he should consider making an exception—to send Kinch to London if things got any worse. As soon as the thought entered his mind the command-oriented portion of his brain rejected it. His intellect reminded him that it would compromise his mission while his heart told him that Kinch wouldn't leave even if he offered. _"No can do, Colonel_," he would say, and that would be that.

A few more laps around the camp gave him the time to come up with a tentative, worst-case-scenario Plan B. Hogan hoped would not be necessary, but it was his job to ensure that all possibilities were planned for. It also gave him time to identify and accept a kernel of guilt that had been developing ever since his outburst at Klink and Schultz. He had meant what he said about Nazi Krauts, he could not deny that, but many of the _Luftwaffe_ soldiers at _Stalag 13_, including Klink and Schultz, were no where near the demonic caricatures put on propaganda posters. Instead they were good men, with no more immorality than any other, thrust into circumstances constructed by the Nazis that even they did not want to be in. If the opportunity presented itself later, Hogan vowed, he would try to do something to make up for his misdirected words.

His grumbling stomach alerted him to the passage of time and his watch proved that nearly four hours had passed since he left Barracks 2. Taking a deep breath to gird himself, he headed back to break the news to his men. Pulling at the door, which always seemed to stick in the winter, he couldn't help but smile as he saw Newkirk in the bunk room with Lebeau's apron on and a stirring spoon poised in his hand. "I think I'll eat out today," he said in greeting.

"Very funny," Newkirk sent his commanding officer a dour look from his position at the stove. Carter, who had apparently already traded shifts with Lebeau, peeked over his friend's shoulder.

"It doesn't look that bad, Colonel. I mean, no worse than when Newkirk normally cooks."

"Thanks a lot." Newkirk's voice dripped with its usual sarcasm. "You don't have to eat it if you don't like it, you know."

"If I only ate things I liked I don't think I would eat very often. Besides, it's not that bad!"

"Carter, you Americans think fried squirrel is a delicacy. That means whatever you think is good or bad means nothing to any normal person."

"Not that you're normal," the sergeant grumbled.

"Oh, sod off, you pyromaniac."

"You're just upset because you can't really appreciate what kind of work goes into a good explosion: the timing, the chemicals, the exact mixture, the care, respect and love each one deserves—"

"Do even listen to yourself when you talk, Carter?"

As entertaining as it was to watch his fellow American dig himself deeper and deeper into a hole, Hogan thought it better to save his youngest subordinate from the Englishman. Besides, he had the unpleasant task of completely destroying the quasi-jesting mood before he lost his mental momentum to get the job done. "Gentlemen," he began, "I have some bad news."

Repeating the words Klink said to him left a sour taste in his mouth. Carter balled his hands into fists, furrowing his brow as he tried to push past his anger to comprehend why anyone could possibly hate Kinch because of his skin color. Newkirk's reaction, predictably, was a bit more violent. Throwing down the pan and spoon he was working with, he ground out between clenched teeth, "Damn Krauts!"

"We may not like it, but we have to deal with it," Hogan sympathized. "The best thing we can do is make it a non-issue by getting Kinch better on our own."

Reigning in his temper enough to realize that Carter needed a distraction now more than ever, Newkirk picked up the pan with one hand and laid the other one on his friend's shoulder in a supportive gesture. Looking at Hogan he said, "I don't envy you the job, Gov'nor, but don't you think you ought to tell Louis?"

Hogan nodded. "I should and I will. Lebeau took the news about Kinch pretty hard—harder than I expected. A little investigation is in order, I think."

"It's an interesting story," Newkirk commented, looking over to the closed door that led to Hogan's office and the man under discussion. Looking back at Hogan, he noticed the surprise on his commander's face and explained, "It happened before you came here, back before Louis and I really knew each other. Actually, it was because of Kinch that the two of us became mates."

As much as he enjoyed an audience for a yarn, and he certainly had the entire barrack's attention after his little outburst, Newkirk knew that it was not his story to tell. "Sorry, gents, but if you want to know more you'll have ask Louis."

"I plan on it." Hogan tugged at the bottom of his flight jacket and headed towards his private quarters. Taking a deep breath, he opened it and walked purposefully inside.

Author's Notes:

Thank you for all of your kind reviews and suggestions. Hopefully you can see some of them reflected in this chapter. The HH fandom is the most welcoming and professional I have had the pleasure of reading and writing in. Its caliber should be known and celebrated. Thanks especially to viggosloof28 for her generous offer to beta (and the outstanding job she did).

Preview:

Please review with any comments or suggestions. Up next: Louis divulges how he, Newkirk and Kinch met. Meanwhile, Hogan starts getting the sneaky suspicion that everything is not what it seems and that he may not know as much as he thinks he does.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: A History Lesson

In which Hogan listens to a story about how things used to be at _Stalag 13_.

With his back turned to the door, Lebeau did not notice Hogan's entrance as he sat next to the lower bunk to keep vigil. The heaviness of the air was punctuated irregularly by the labored sound of the sick man's breaths as his chest rose and fell shallowly. Lebeau held one of his dear friend's hands in between both of his while under his breath he sang a song his mother comforted him with as a child when he was ill. The Frenchman's red sweater stood out in stark relief against the drab surroundings and maudlin atmosphere.

_Á la claire fontaine_

_M'en allant promener_

_J'ai trouvé l'eau si belle_

_Que je m'y suis baigné_

_Il y a longtemps que je t'aime_

_Jamais je ne t'oublierai_

_Sous les feuilles d'un chêne_

_Je ma suis fait sécher_

_Sur la pus haute branche_

_Un rossignol chantait_*

"How is he?" Hogan asked softly, not wanting to startle the younger man.

"Oh, _mon Colonél_," Lebeau looked up but did not let go of Kinch's hand, "I did not hear you come in. Kinch is the same, I think. Nothing we do is helping, but neither is it hurting. He was awake a little while ago, but not anymore."

Lebeau looked exhausted but calm. Unfortunately, Hogan knew by experience that his fiery corporal's stillness was far more dangerous than any emotional display. It meant the Frenchman's normal passion had been super-heated and was ready to explode at the slightest provocation. _'Lucky me,'_ Hogan thought sarcastically, _'I have just the spark to set him off.'_

Aloud, he said, "Good to hear. The last thing we need is more complications. Klink just told me that we aren't getting any help from the Krauts, no matter what."

"No help? But why?" Lebeau demanded, his voice rising in volume and pitch. Through all his experiences as a Frenchman and member of the _Maquis_ underground he had more than enough reasons to hate the _boche_ in general_,_ but this seemed irregularly unreasonable for the Germans of _Stalag 13_.

"I'll tell you why, but only if you promise to keep your temper," Hogan bargained. The last thing he wanted to do today was wrestle one of his own men to the floor in order to prevent the murder of a German colonel.

The corporal nodded and let go of Kinch's hand. To replace it he took off his beret and began twisting it in his hands, knowing that whatever he was about to hear would be unpleasant. As the Colonel explained the situation Lebeau could feel his temper threatening to spill over but kept his promise faithfully by trying to wring the color out of his cover.

When Hogan finished his story, Lebeau looked down at his unexpected friend's face, scrunched in pain and sweating what seemed like oceans. "I thought we'd all gotten beyond that—Newkirk and I made sure of it after Kinch got us out of a...what do you Americans call it?...a tough jam?"

It was exactly the opening Hogan was looking for. "What jam? The three of you looked pretty tight when Carter and I arrived. In fact, it was Kinch that suggested bringing you two 'foreigners' into the operation from the start."

Lebeau smiled, " 'Foreigners', _Colonél_? You are farther away from home than I am. It's true, though, that Kinch started looking out for Newkirk and me almost from the moment he arrived. I think it was because we are smaller than he is."

Hogan's expression lightened and he relaxed a bit at the joke. Nearly everyone in camp was smaller than Kinch, a fact that perhaps helped explain his unwavering dedication to the operation. Despite his sometimes caustic remarks and frustration with them, Hogan knew that his radioman cared deeply for the younger men of their organization. Prodding Lebeau again, Hogan asked, "What happened that made Kinch have to stick his neck out and save the two of you?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I do."

Lebeau looked down again at one of his great sources of strength and took a deep breath. "It all started a few weeks before you and Carter were brought here—back when this camp really was a prison. Klink had only recently been transferred in and we didn't know how to train him or the other Krauts yet. Our memories of that devil Commandant Swartz were still too strong and we were afraid. I doubt even you would have been able to manipulate that evil man, _Colonél_. Some of Swartz's men were still here as well and making life miserable."

Hogan nodded. He'd heard stories of Swartz and his vile men and none were flattering. "So it was Swartz's men who sought out Kinch to make life miserable?" he guessed.

"_Non_, at least, not any more than any other man. They were cowards and would never approach someone bigger and stronger than they were. Instead they took their pleasure from torturing the smaller prisoners."

"Like you."

Though it wasn't pleasant at the time to endure, the memory now held a fondness that brought a smile to Lebeau's face. "Like me," he admitted. "It wasn't a very pleasant time. I was jealous, even hateful, of men like Kinch who did not face the abuse that I did. Worse than that, the other men in camp ignored it. Even Newkirk--it was a survival instinct that we had all developed to stay out of the Cooler and worse.

"It was one day in late October when two of the guards, Humboldt and Ritter, decided they would try taking away the one thing that brought me any pleasure in this place—my cooking. I had been on a work detail outside of the wire building up the hedgerows along Heidelberg Road. There was thyme growing wild along the path that I picked, well in the view of Humboldt, and brought back into camp. When I was walking back to the barracks, those two goons were waiting for me."

The memory took on a life of its own in the Frenchman's mind as he vividly remembered the jeering of the guards. "When are these Frogs going to realize that they are defeated?" Humboldt crowed, nudging his fellow bully. "They must be universally stupid not to know that their cities, their money, their homes, their women—all of them belong to us. Maybe they simply like dying by our hands when they fight us."

"Ah, but their women do not fight too much!"

"Tell me, Frenchie, do you have any sisters? A mother?"

Even the dark days of Swartz's reign could not put a damper on Lebeau's temper. "How dare you…!" was all he was able to get out before launching himself at the Krauts.

It wasn't difficult for the two guards to subdue him and pin his arms behind his back. Humboldt dug a hand into the inside pocket of Lebeau's jacket to pick out a small paper packet. "What is this? Smuggling contraband, Frenchie?"

"You know what it is," Lebeau struggled as Humboldt stuck the envelope in his own uniform pocket. "Thyme from outside. It is no danger to you."

"Oh, but it is. What kind of soldiers would we be if we let our prisoners take whatever they wanted from the German people? Especially those trying to attack soldiers of the glorious Third Reich." Holding on to Lebeau's collar, Humboldt shook him sternly and suggested, "Maybe we should make an example of him."

Lebeau closed his eyes in fearful expectancy. As usual, his so-called Allies had abandoned him to his fate, unwilling to risk their marginally bearable life for his. Before the beating could begin, however, he heard a new voice intervene. "Hey, now, what's going on here?"

Opening his eyes, the Frenchman saw one of the new transfers from last week sauntering towards him. It was the big black man, hands stuffed into his pockets for warmth. He'd barely heard the mustachioed sergeant say two words since his arrival and now, here he was, doing what no veteran of the camp would do.

When it appeared that neither German was listening to him, the sergeant put a hand on the arm that was holding Lebeau hostage. "That means 'stop'," he clarified.

Humboldt did as he was told, but used his newly unoccupied hand to swing his rifle up to his shoulder and point it squarely at the American's chest. "Touch me with your dirty hand again, Darkie, and I will shoot it off for you."

"No need to lose your temper," Kinch replied patronizingly, unfazed by the threat or the insult. Placing a protective hand on the Frenchman's shoulder, the black man expertly maneuvered himself in between the Germans and their intended target. "That means you too, Lebeau."

"But did you hear what he called you!?"

"Relax, I've been called worse."

Seeing what the new man in camp was trying to do brought a sadistic smile to the guard's face. "Isn't this touching, Ritter? Here's a monkey trying to make some human friends by protecting our little Frenchie. But most of these Allies are all talk and we wouldn't want little Lebeau getting involved with the wrong type of people. We should make sure that Darkie here isn't going to take advantage of the poor boy."

Without warning, Ritter sidestepped behind Kinch, took the end of his gun in his hands and slammed it into the back of the American's head. The unexpectedness of the blow, more than its force, stunned the sergeant to his knees. Not giving him a chance to recover, Humboldt kicked him savagely in the stomach with his steel-toed jackboot, sending him to the ground.

"_Arrêtez_! Stop it!" Lebeau cried. He tried to step forward but found new hands restraining him. Looking back, he saw a vaguely familiar face that belonged to one of the RAF pilots in his barracks. _'Newkirk'_ his mind supplied. "Let go of me!"

"Knock it off!" the Englishman hissed into his ear, his voice raspy and firm. "You'll only make it worse."

Another blow landed. Another. Another. "Worse!? How could it get worse?"

"Use your eyes," Newkirk whispered. "He's a man that knows how to take a beating, you can tell." It was only later that they would learn about Kinch's boxing history which explained the observation. "He's taking this for you so you bloody well better not shortchange him by still managing to get yourself roughed up in all of this."

Held there, this time by friend not foe, it was a difficult scene for Lebeau to watch. Uttering no more than a few pained grunts, Kinch made no effort to get up or counterattack. After a few heart-wrenching minutes the guards tired of their sport when they realized their prey was not fighting back. Curious guards from other posts in the camp began to converge on the noise, drawing unwanted attention to the Germans' villainy.

"You boys might want to move on," Newkirk advised Ritter and Humboldt in a faux-concerned voice. "I hear the new _kommandant_ is smarter than the average German—can read and everything. He's even read the Geneva Convention. I've heard that men who break it are given parkas as parting gifts."

Despite the hatred that flashed in their eyes, the guards had heard rumors about their new superior officer and the changes he was making to the _stalag_. _'A different way of discipline, a decrease in escapes,'_ was his motto. Arbitrary punishments by the guards, swept under the rug under Swartz's command, were being prosecuted. In point of fact, the Sergeant of the Guard's transfer was going to arrive any day.

"I would suggest you watch your back, Englander," Humboldt warned, "You may not have noticed, but you have no where to run from us. You'll see your friends suffer," he grinned, "right before you are hauled away by the _Gestapo_."

Newkirk's expression didn't change and his eyes didn't waver from Humboldt's. "Not before you, you bloody Kraut."

Blaring whistles and shouts of, _"Halt! Halt!"_ filled the air and forced an end to the stare-down between the Axis and Allies. The crowd of prisoners that had assembled to watch the verbal exchange spontaneously made a wall of men between the incoming guards and the three men of _Barrack 2_.

Captain Hanover, the slight, graying, conservative Senior POW before Colonel Hogan, hurried over to them. It was not in his play-it-safe personality to encourage such reckless behavior, but the sense of Allied pride that swept over him after watching the altercation was intoxicating. "Newkirk, Lebeau, take the sergeant back to the barracks. I'll take care of things here."

"Right-o, Capitan," Newkirk squatted down to sling one of Kinch's arms over his shoulder as the American began to struggle up. Still shaken by the experience, Lebeau only nodded and followed.

Taking his savior's other arm, Lebeau looked across their shared burden to the wiry Englishman. "_Merci,_ Newkirk."

"Don't mention it, mate," Newkirk kicked open the door. "I just came in on an opportunity. It's this barmy man you really have to really thank."

"And I do thank you _Messieur…?_"

"Kinchloe," the man's voice was deep and strong, even when he was nearly doubled over in pain, "Sergeant Kinchloe, but you can call me Kinch."

Waving with his free hand towards his bottom bunk, Lebeau indicated that they should deposit their burden there. "Is there anything that you need, _mon ami_ Kinch?"

Kinch shook his head and closed his eyes. "Nothing, just a little quiet and sleep. Thank you both, by the way."

Newkirk smiled. "Happy to do it. In fact, it gave me a chance to do this," the English corporal reached into his blue uniform and retrieved a small paper packet.

"My thyme!"

"Well, I don't want to lose my touch, after all, and if it's worth scraping over, it's worth getting back."

"That was the first time I made a meal for Newkirk and Kinch—not that Newkirk has ever truly appreciated it. I don't know what Captain Hanover did, but Humboldt and Ritter were transferred within the week. The next day Kinch was fine and Newkirk didn't seem so horrible, for an Englishman."

Hogan grinned. _'And they lived happily ever after,'_ he wanted to quip, but refrained from doing so. It was nice to see Lebeau smiling again. "I'm glad Kinch had the two of you looking after him."

"_Oui, Colonél_, always," Lebeau once again took hold of the sick man's hands. "It is the least I can do to repay my debt to him. It is also why my blood boils when I hear Kinch abused because of his color. It reminds me of that day when he acted more decently than any other man in this camp."

Standing up, Hogan patted his French corporal on the shoulder. "Keep me posted on any changes."

"I will, _Colonél_."

The expression on Hogan's face as he exited his office did wonders for the tense feeling of the main room that he had left. Newkirk handed him a plate and commented, "I take it you got the whole story, eh sir?"

"The whole thing," Hogan agreed. "I had no idea you were such a softie, Newkirk."

The British pilot blushed. "Don't let the word out, Colonel. I've got my reputation to uphold after all."

Author's Note: For those that were curious, Newkirk's "fried squirrel" comment can be directly linked to the Fried Food Festival occurring near my home state while I was in the process of writing that section of the story. Fried Snickers, anyone? The reviewers are right, the odds of Newkirk knowing anything about it are doubtful, but it was on the brain.

Also, I would like to thank everyone for their input on the characterization of Hogan and others. Many said that he was "darker" than normally portrayed, which was my intention. One of my favorite aspects of the show is that the men, in their various ways, are all very flawed (ergo, they are human). They all, at one point or another, lose their tempers, make bad decisions and get defensive when others criticize their actions. That's what happens when men are confined and under large amounts of stress. Look forward to seeing more along those lines in upcoming chapters.

*Translation of Lebeau's classic French lullaby:

At the clear fountain,  
While I was strolling by,  
I found the water so nice  
That I went in to bathe.

So long I've been loving you,  
I will never forget you.

Under an oak tree,  
I dried myself.  
On the highest branch,  
A nightingale was singing.

Preview: Scoval's level-headedness reappears (along with him in another cameo), tensions start to get the better of the men, and Newkirk is tasked with saving the day. Meanwhile, roses bloom.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: A Turn for the Worst

In which the Universe proves it can be cruel and unusual and Newkirk gets a new job.

After eating lunch, which wasn't bad but wasn't exactly good when compared to Lebeau's daily masterpieces, Hogan watched Newkirk go down into the tunnels to help get Carter started on the inventory. When it was his turn to take over the vigil, he emerged from their underground complex and sent Lebeau down to check on Carter's progress in his stead. The hours passed slowly with their new arrival Scoval volunteering to take the fourth watch.

When Shultz came to _"raus"_ them for evening roll call he did so much more quietly than usual and purposefully did not look Hogan in the eye. He also informed the Senior POW that Sergeant Kinchloe did not need to fall out for _appell_. All the other men were required to leave the barracks, however, which meant that the radioman would be left alone for hours. "I-I am sorry, Colonel Hogan, but they are orders from the Big Shot himself."

"It's okay, Shultz," Hogan tried to show that there were no hard feelings while his pride would not let him outright apologize.

"Thank you, Colonel Hogan."

Looking back on the situation later, Hogan would curse himself for so willingly abandoning his sick subordinate. Confident that the worst was over, Hogan stepped out the door and took his place at the head of the parade line without a second thought. The mind-numbing routine of _appell_ brought a certain sense of calm in the hectic day and, despite the fact that the sun was falling below the horizon, Hogan thought that the future was beginning to look brighter. Filing back into the barracks, Hogan was further calmed by the contented buzz of conversation as his men prepared to close up shop for the night and Scoval returned to his post at Kinch's bedside.

His assumption about the positive turn of events was proven wrong when Scoval re-opened the door of his office, scarce moments after he had resumed his watch, and came to stand formally behind him. Newkirk, sitting across the table, looked at the blonde man questioningly but said nothing. Carter and Lebeau were nowhere to be seen, having scurried downstairs to clean up their mess before lights-out. "Colonel, can I have a word with you?" Scoval asked with deliberate calmness.

"What can I do for you, Private?" Colonel replied from where he had picked up a losing hand of poker cards from the table.

"Honestly, sir, I'd rather discuss it with you alone in your office."

As Senior POW, Hogan was required to avail himself to his men when they felt the need to discuss their problems, personal or otherwise, though he did not do it very often. Most of the men had at least one compatriot that they felt more comfortable bearing their soul to than their CO. Scoval was new, though, and Hogan did not want to highlight his dearth of friends in front of the other men. "Sure, Claes. You're saving me from yet another humiliating defeat at the hands of the British. Newkirk, I thought that we were supposed to be on same side in this war."

The swarthy Englander smiled. "Consider it repayment for that little revolt against the crown a while back."

Hogan groaned theatrically and pushed back his chair. "I've lost enough money to pay for twenty boatloads of tea," he kidded. "Come on, Scoval."

Making way for the colonel to get up, the Norwegian quickly whispered, "Colonel, Sergeant Kinchloe has gotten worse."

That simple phrase motivated Hogan as few others could. As he moved closer to the interior door, he could hear a clogged-sounding cough emanate from the makeshift sickroom. Upon entering, he saw Kinch awake and sitting up, his hand over his mouth. Any joy at seeing this evaporated when Kinch pulled his hand away, revealing to Hogan the think blood upon it. A quick survey of the room revealed more blood staining the threadbare blanket.

Hogan rushed to his radioman's side. "Kinch? Kinch! Talk to me!" His hand stood out in stark contrast against the dark forehead. Even the officer's untrained medical skills could detect an increase in temperature.

"Colonel?" Kinch's eyes and mind were having a hard time focusing. "I'm sorry about…your bunk…."

"It's okay, Kinch. Just…take it easy."

Hogan looked up at Scoval. "I found him like this," he reported, "and I thought that announcing it to everyone would be counterproductive."

"You did the right thing," the Colonel reassured him, aware of the stampede that would have resulted. "Right now you need to use Tunnel #5 to get Wilson. Now."

Picking up a half-filled glass of water from the floor Hogan raised it to his communication officer's lips. With an annoyed look on his face, Kinch took the cup away from Hogan despite his trembling hands. "I can handle it, Colonel."

Hogan let him have his pride, despite the fact that half of the water ended up on the floor or dribbling down to spot Kinch's khaki t-shirt. "You need to lie down. Wilson is on his way."

He tried to make it sound like an order, but Hogan's command façade was crumbling under the weight of his own concern. He could not keep his worry out of his voice. Kinch looked at him squarely, annoyed and confused by his commanding officer's lapse in character. As someone who helped coordinate the smooth operation of their espionage program, it irked Kinch to know that his sickness was causing Hogan to act abnormally and therefore possibly dangerously. Looking at the perturbed expression on the sergeant's face, though unaware that it was directed at him, Hogan felt like he was looking once again at the frank, healthy second-in-command he valued so much. "I'm getting worse, aren't I?"

"Yes."

"And the calvary isn't coming, is it?"

"Not the closest one," Hogan admitted, "I'm going to get Newkirk on the radio to see what the Underground can do to help us out. They owe us a couple of favors."

"Hammelburg is shut down because of the 88-cannon factory explosion," Kinch reminded him. "Radio silence for 24-hours."

"Then we'll try Düsseldorf, Paris, London or Washington if we have to."

Kinch lay back, only to be seized by another bout of rough coughing. When it was over he wiped the blood away from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't know if that will work, sir."

"You leave the details up to me," Hogan chided. Usually, ironing out the bumps of the colonel's plans fell to the perpetually well-organized sergeant, a point that was not lost on either of them.

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation and both men looked up when the door once again opened. Wilson's form filled most of the doorway, but a swath of RAF blue behind him gave away Newkirk's eavesdropping presence. Towering over both of them in height and girth, Scoval also peeked in. "Alright, everybody, there's nothin' to see here," the medic shoved the two men away from the door. "Git!"

"Hold on a second, Newkirk," Hogan vacated his seat, which Wilson promptly stole, and followed the Englishman into the common room. Placing a hand on the corporal's shoulder he ordered, "Get on the radio and find me a doctor."

Newkirk looked at him uncertainly. "I can try, sir, but the shortwave is about as much as I can handle. There's no way I can tag-a-long on tower signals the way Kinch does to reach London. I'll be lucky if I can reach Mama Bear with all the blasted frequency drop."

"Do whatever you can."

"Well that goes without saying, sir," Newkirk tapped the latch to their underground labyrinth. Hesitating he asked, "What do you want me to tell Carter and Lebeau?"

Hogan sighed, covering his eyes with a frustrated hand. "The truth. They deserve as much."

"They do," Newkirk agreed. Without another word he swung himself onto the top rung of the ladder and descended. The paraffin lamps spluttered in the tunnels without their regular caretaker. The flickering light and lack of escapees anxiously awaiting repatriation to England gave the whole place an eerie feeling. Before heading to the radio room, Newkirk detoured towards two bickering voices he could hear in one of the branch tunnels. Rather than delay the inevitable, the Englander decided to break the news to his friends as quickly and therefore painlessly as possible.

"Carter! Why can't you be more careful!? The last thing we need is for you to blow up a tunnel!" he heard as he rounded the corner.

"I'm not going to blow us up!" Carter argued back. "Only a-a-an idiot would think spilling a little phosphate would cause an explosion. It was an accident!"

Obviously the situation above ground was beginning to grate on everyone. Patience was wearing thin. Like an older brother straightening out younger siblings before they bothered their hardworking parents, Newkirk stepped into Carter's lab.

"Don't you think we have enough problems without you two at each other's throats?" he demanded, annoyed at their childish behavior. It seemed incomprehensible to him that they would act that way knowing that Kinch was possibly dying above their heads.

'_Sod off, Newkirk—they don't know. You haven't told them yet_,' his brain reminded him.

Lebeau turned to look at the intruder with a look of disgust. All animosity drained away, however, when he saw the uncharacteristic sadness straining Newkirk's face. "_Pierre_, what is wrong?"

"Yeah, what is it, buddy?"

Newkirk was unable to look either of them in the eye as he filled them in on the developing events above their heads. "Colonel Hogan is with Wilson now," he concluded.

"Is Kinch going to die?" Carter asked timidly, his expression scared but trusting in his friend's evaluation of the situation. It was at times like this that Newkirk was glad he did not have a little brother to take care of growing up on in the dockends of London. Naturally the pessimist, he could not plaster a fake smile on his face and assure his dearest friend in this hell-hole that everything would be fine.

Luckily, Lebeau noticed his discomfort and came to the rescue. "Of course not, _André_, he is too strong."

Carter smiled, relieved. "You're right. Nothing can keep Kinch down for long."

Newkirk didn't look convinced, but chose to stay silent. Instead, he turned to something pragmatic he could do to help, confident that Lebeau would keep Carter's spirits up. Heading down the tunnel to the familiar alcove that held their radio equipment, he dropped himself on the termite-burrowed chair that served as the nerve center of their operation. According to Kinch the chair no longer housed the creatures that could bring the tunnels crashing down on their heads and the scars that they left on his chair gave it 'character'.

Using the hand crank to jump start the motor that fed the short-wave radio, Newkirk felt like a young boy sitting in his father's chair at the head of a table. Little signs of the real operator's presence were everywhere—a stained tin with coffee dregs from the auxiliary, late-night coffee pot on the corner of the table, a tented copy of A Study in Scarlet, a heavy black sweater with trousers underneath hung neatly on a homemade hanger from an exposed nail on a support beam. The motor finally shifted into gear, causing electricity to surge through the system. Newkirk winced at the static on the line as he refitted the headphones to fit his head. _'Well Peter, time to show the boys back home what you can do. Remember, it doesn't have to be great, just good enough….'_

Blazing onward, he spent hours attempting to establish contact with anyone who knew a physician. From Hammelburg to London his requests ended in failure. The only positive answer he received had been from his hometown, with a promise that a man could be dropped two weeks from Thursday.

"He could be dead by then!" he'd shouted into the microphone, not caring that the disembodied voice on the other end of the line was far-and-away his superior officer.

"Sorry, old chap, but that's the best we can do. There's a war on, you know," headquarters informed him.

"I hadn't noticed," spat sarcastically. "Goldilocks out."

Taking off the headphones, Newkirk leaned the chair back precariously on its back legs and looked up at the ceiling of the tunnel. Nothing was ever easy within their operation, but right now it seemed like circumstances from all sides were conspiring against them. He remembered the day Hogan had approached him with a twinkle in his eye and an impossible plan to create a way-station for escaping prisoners. He'd been sewing one of his button's back on his jacket, he recalled. Kinch had been behind the new CO, supportive and smiling as if he already knew what the Englander's response would be. _'You can trust this man,'_ he seemed to be saying at the time. _'I do.'_

His reminiscing was interrupted by a persistent, rather obnoxious tapping sound. Settling the chair back on the ground, he looked around in confusion for a minute before realizing the source of the disturbance. The Morse receiver had come to life, beating a steady stream of letters into the air.

'_I thought Hammelburg was on blackout,'_ Newkirk puzzled, _'And no one else should know about this frequency_.'

Grabbing a piece of paper and pencil, the RAF pilot concentrated on the series of dots and dashes transmitted over the wireless. The more he listened, the more confused he became. Looking at what he wrote, over and over again, didn't help. Another mystery – and Peter Newkirk did not like mysteries. Lacking any other options, he crept back up the ladder to see if Hogan could shed some light on the message.

"Colonel," he hesitated at the door and knocked lightly in order to not disturb the men who were sleeping.

He needn't have bothered because there was no hesitation in the response. "Come on in, Newkirk."

It didn't surprise the ex-(more or less) con artist that his commanding officer was wide awake. Stepping into the room and closing the door behind him, his eyes were automatically drawn to the black man lying with eyes closed on the bottom bunk. "How is he?"

"Sleeping, finally, but Wilson had bad news." Hogan replied from his seat. "He believes that the blood Kinch is coughing up now is a sign of something much more serious than we originally thought. Taking care of him ourselves is no longer an option. That means we need outside options. What did you manage to dig up?"

Faced with this new information, Newkirk's reply was devastating. "In a short word: nothing."

"Damn." Hogan did not curse very often, but in this case it felt appropriate. Watching his second-in-command die, the toppling of a pillar of strength to the entire camp, would be devastating. The entire building that pillar helped support would be in jeopardy of collapsing catastrophically.

In his mind's eye he could see the utter destruction of morale, especially for the men of Barracks 2. There would be Lebeau, empty-eyed and tearing up his recipe cards of the dishes Kinch loved, knowing he would never be able to make them again without reliving the painful memories they sparked. Carter would be sitting on his bunk, eyes red from crying at night when he thought no one else could hear him because he believed real men didn't cry. In his hand he would desperately grasp a piece of memorabilia to remember Kinch by—perhaps a spare piece of radio equipment, a book, a pencil, a piece of clothing, anything—terrified that he would forget his friend. At the table Newkirk would mindlessly shuffle his poker cards, ten, twenty, one hundred times to distract himself from the pain in his heart. When he heard Andrew crying every night he would be secretly glad because the young American's tears would serve to mask the sound of his own. Finally, he saw himself seated at his desk with two pieces of paper in front of him. One was unreadable but he knew what it was—Kinch's will that was normally kept safely tucked in the barrack's Bible. The other had one line on it and his trembling hand was poised, unable to continue, above it. _'Dear Mr. and Mrs. Kinchloe. I regret to inform you…_'

"Nothing came through?" he asked, finding it inconceivable that they would be denied help after everything they had done to support the war effort.

"Nothing that we can use, unless you know something about this mystery message that I don't." Hogan's eyebrows rose in interest, distracting him from his premonition and prompting Newkirk to hand over the blue notepaper with the confusing code on it. "I received this transmission from an unknown source, with an unknown recognition code," he elaborated.

Hogan unfolded the paper and glanced at it. Much to Newkirk's surprise a grin broke out on the American's face. "Padua, eh?" he mused.

"Does that mean something to you, sir?"

"It does," Hogan admitted. "It has to do with Kinch's side business."

Newkirk looked at the colonel incredulously. "Side business?"

"According to the stated objectives of our operation," Hogan explained, "we can only be involved in military personnel and objectives. 'Padua' is the call sign Kinch uses when he helps coordinate civilian missions. You know about the round-ups of people throughout the Reich, right?"

Newkirk nodded. He'd heard about it from the other prisoners of occupied countries. Undesirables were rounded up and deported to God-only-knew-where and never heard from again. Knowing what he did of the crazy Austrian artist's plans, it didn't take a genius to figure out what probably happened.

"Kinch monitors radio communications and warns operatives in areas that are about to be raked over. In extreme, very off-the-books cases, he sets them up with Underground agents that can help smuggle individuals to neutral countries."

"And 'Padua' comes from…?" Newkirk prompted.

Hogan broke out into a full-fledged smile. "The nerve center of their organization, _geschlossen Stieg,_ is an old monastery outside of Stuttgart. Luckily the Catholic litany of saints has plenty of code names to choose from. Kinch's name comes from the finder of lost things, Saint Anthony of Padua."

Newkirk couldn't help but think of how appropriate the call name was. Kinch was constantly finding things—calmness in hectic situations, information that by all rights they should have no access to and the right way to effortlessly encourage the entire camp to go along with Hogan's harebrained schemes.

This new information also helped explain the inordinate amount of time Kinch spent glued to the radio outside of missions. It sounded like there were more people indebted to their African American comrade than he originally thought.

"Wait a minute…." A light bulb inspiration flickered into life in Newkirk's mind. "Colonel, do we have a way to make contact with this _geschlossen Stieg_ organization? Will they trust a message from another source?"

"Keep in mind, Newkirk, that I have no official knowledge of Kinch's involvement in the _geschlossen Stieg_. That being said, as far as I know they usually communicated through Morse and only in emergencies used audio. The recognition codes are on the back of the outdated Berlin map downstairs. Why? Are you planning on making a phone call?" Hogan immediately grasped what the British non-com was thinking and berated himself for not coming up with it himself. Either his stress levels were clouding his mind more than he though, or his students were beginning to surpass the teacher.

"I just might." Newkirk felt the tiniest glimmer of hope reignite. "It sounds like they owe our mate, and I'm about to call in their debts." His expression hardened. "And I won't take 'no' for an answer."

Hogan stood to place a supportive hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Peter. Let's see if we can't make some silver lining to this situation before Carter and Lebeau wake up. I'll be awake if you need anything

"Right, Gov," he turned to leave, feeling lighter from both the compliment and the realization that all was not lost, at least not yet.

Before he searched their map cabinet for the annotated map he needed, Newkirk plugged in Kinch's coffee pot and set it to make three cups. He'd need every extra ounce of artificial energy he could get in the coming 24-hours. As it percolated, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and searched through their stacks of maps until he found the 1940 Berlin map. They'd almost discarded it when the Underground gave them an update, but Kinch, ever the just-in-case packrat, had argued against it. "Trust me, Colonel," he'd argued, "A navigator never burns a map. There's always something on one that isn't on another, no matter how much nicer the update looks."

'_Especially when you make 'em that way,'_ Newkirk thought, turning over the map to see lines of code words, frequencies, times and locations neatly arranged in a grid. The radioman was meticulous in his notes, something that tended to happen when a single mistake could mean capture, torture and death.

Scanning down the list he identified the most likely candidate for reception and dialed in the 153.6 mHz frequency to Köln. A quick flick of his cigarette to discharge the ashes and a deep breath calmed him enough to pick up the microphone and recite the code words. "I've heard the cathedral in Köln pales in comparison to Notre Dame."

No answer.

"I've heard the cathedral in Köln pales in comparison to Notre Dame," he repeated, taking care to enunciate every syllable for clarity.

Silence.

'_Please, you have to trust the system, not the voice,'_ Newkirk pleaded with his unknown contacts on the other side. His voice could not be confused with Kinch's even under the worst communication conditions. It wasn't deep enough, confident enough, smooth enough, and held the wrong accent.

"I've heard the cathedral in Köln pales in comparison to Notre Dame," he tried a third time.

The hiss of white noise was all that answered him. "Answer me!" he yelled, slamming the microphone down. A prickling feeling around his eyes made him realize how much unsubstantiated hope he had put in such a long-shot plan. Nothing else had worked—why had he assumed this would?

'_Because I didn't want to be the one that had to tell Andrew that Kinch was going to die,'_ his heart told him. _'Because I didn't want to believe that a good man would die so ingloriously. Because all of our plans, as outrageous as they can be, have always worked before.'_

But not this time. This time it was a failure.

Standing a bit unsteadily, Newkirk scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand. He had to tell the Colonel. They would have to devise a way to break the news gently to Andrew and Louis. They'd have to—

"They all look the same to a blind man."

Newkirk nearly tripped over himself to grab the microphone. "But the music makes the difference," he completed the code. "Blimey, it took you blokes long enough to answer."

"You're not Padua," the gruff, German-accented voice accused. "We had to decide if we had been compromised. Who are you?"

The corporal hesitated, unsure of how much information he should divulge. After careful consideration he responded, "My name is Newkirk. Your contact, Padua, is my mate. We work together."

"In the Underground?"

Newkirk winced. He would rather keep any information about their other clandestine operations off the line, but he needed to gain this contact's trust. "Yes," he confirmed, but opted not to offer any details.

Muffled sounds could be heard on the other side of the line, as if the _geschlossen Stieg_ man had put his hand over his microphone and was talking to others. Newkirk waited anxiously. "Has something happened to eliminate Padua as an operative?" the man asked after his conference.

"Yes," Newkirk pounced on his chance to move the conversation along, "Well, 'yes' if we don't do something about it right quick. Kinch, I mean Padua, is terribly sick, possibly dying. We need a doctor, one that knows something about how a man's insides work."

Another skeptical pause was followed by, "How would this physician travel to you?"

"Through the Underground," the RAF flyer explained. "In 8 hours I can have the route, recognition signals, and agents on standby." The Underground's blackout would end in a few hours at dawn, giving him the remainder of the time to coordinate everything.

"For one man you would do this much? You would put this many people, including yourself, at risk?"

"Without a second thought."

More conversation took place in Köln behind the smothered microphone, giving Newkirk time to reflect on his answer. He hadn't hesitated to respond. Awareness of that fact prompted him to try to determine exactly when his natural self-preservation instinct had been subjugated to the welfare of his comrades. It had begun with Kinch, he knew, and cultivated by Andrew and Louis's fierce love and dedication to him and the operation.

The mumbling voices on the line died down, drawing Newkirk's attention back to the radio. "At 1230, Dr. Füchschen will be awaiting instructions."

Newkirk jotted down the information on a scrap of paper; this time his hand trembled in relief and excitement. "Right," he confirmed, trying to keep his voice calm, "Padua out."

Author's Note:

_geschlossen Stieg_, so far as I know, translates into 'closed rose' in German and is loosely based on the 'Red Orchestra' group that actually existed during WWII (except it's not socialist). The Catholic background is an allusion to the following famous quote/poem, attributed to a Catholic priest:

"At first they came for the Communists—

and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the Socialists—

and I did not speak out because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists—

and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews—

and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—

and there was no one left to speak out for me."

Dr. Füschschen is named after a type of _alt bier_ from Kaiserswert, Germany (a 'borough' of Düsseldorf), near where the show supposedly takes place. On another note, the cathedral at Köln (spelled Cologne on many English maps) was almost completely destroyed by Allied bombing in WWII but was rebuilt to reflect its former magnificence after the war.

Preview:

Dr. Füchschen arrives, Schultz tries to do something right, Carter stands up to the expectations people have for him and reveals to Hogan a secret about his first day on the job.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: A Final Conversation

In which Hogan learns a little about the beginnings of Carter and Newkirk's friendship, Kinch gets a gift and the countdown begins.

Lighting a second – this time celebratory – cigarette, Newkirk struggled to contain his excitement while climbing upstairs to bring his news about Dr. Füchschen to Hogan. Tip-toeing through the bunk room was one of the hardest things for him to do, especially as he passed by the beds of his two closest companions. He wanted to wake them up to see the expressions on their faces when he gave them the good news. Too many years of sudden disappointment after seemingly certain victory, however, had taught him not to advertise his accomplishments too early. He still had work to do, a complicated series of events to choreograph, and it was only when he could guarantee the doctor's presence at Kinch's bedside that he would feel safe telling them of his success.

Despite his sure belief in worst-case scenarios, Newkirk could not keep himself from immediately informing Hogan of his progress. This time he didn't bother to knock before entering. "Good news, Colonel."

Hogan looked up from where he had relocated back to the chair beside Kinch's bedside. Much to Newkirk's surprise, they were both awake.

"I could use some good news right about now," the sick man's voice was harsh, no doubt from his continued coughing up of blood, but it still held a hint of his classically dry humor.

"Kinch! How are you doin', mate?"

"Still alive," his friend assured him, "and by the sound of your entrance, I may be around a bit longer still." It was the closest Kinch would ever get to admitting that he had been contemplating his own mortality.

"Of course. Haven't you heard, Kinch? No one ever escapes _Stalag 13_," Hogan quoted, attempting to lighten up the sudden gloom. He held out his hand for the blue note in the RAF non-com's hand saying, "Let's see what you have."

Glancing over the communiqué, the colonel's face broke into a grin. "Kinch, what can you tell us about Dr. Füchschen?"

"Dr. Füchschen?" the black man looked at the two of them with confusion, wondering if he was beginning to hallucinate in addition to all of the other symptoms he suffered from. No one at _Stalag 13_ should have known about the leader of the Köln cell of _die geschlossene Rose._ "How do you know that name?"

Hogan laid a comforting hand on his obviously distressed radioman's shoulder. "I told Newkirk about your moonlighting as a good Samaritan. We were running out of options and thought the good karma you accumulated might work in our favor. Looks like it did."

"It was about time something went bloody right," Newkirk griped, remembering the frustration of trying to contact their other supposed allies.

"H-How soon will Füchschen be able to be here?" Kinch asked. Hogan looked over at the sergeant, surprised by the stutter. Despite all of his sleep, Kinch still looked exhausted and every so often spasms of pain shivered through his body. The sheer speed with which the disease was destroying his second-in-command was frightening—a fact they were all acutely aware of.

"As soon as I can set up the rendezvous," Newkirk assured the black man through a monstrous yawn.

As much as he was concerned about the continually deteriorating health of his radioman, Hogan could see another soul struggling to stay awake now that the adrenaline of success was wearing off. Two long nights of stressful, active duty were taking their toll on Newkirk and, despite the fact that Hogan knew his subordinate would protest, the Englander needed at least a few hours of sleep. His order was met with the expected resistance.

"I'm fine, Colonel," Newkirk protested.

"Newkirk, that wasn't a request."

Still Newkirk hesitated. There were things to do, and the Colonel had been up all night, the same as him. Of course, even he knew better than to try telling Hogan what to do. It was one of the few perks of command the American insisted upon. Just as he was about to test his luck by arguing back again, another voice entered the fray.

"Newkirk, do what the Colonel says," Kinch chided. "You're no good to anyone when you're tired and cranky."

The Englander looked down at the floor, knowing Kinch was right. He had a bad habit of losing his temper and making things worse when he didn't have enough sleep. Hogan, meanwhile, frowned slightly when he realized that a simple sentence from Kinch was going to get the results he couldn't with a direct order. Sometimes he wondered who was really in charge of their operation.

"A few hours," Newkirk conceded. Trying to lose with dignity, he smirked and placed his own stipulations on the command. "Just make sure Lebeau doesn't wake me up before roll call with his annoying early bird routine, would you?"

Hogan nodded. "Deal. Now get out of here."

As the door closed, the senior POW turned back to his sergeant. "You've got to stop doing that, Kinch."

"Doing what, Colonel?" he asked, plastering a fake smile on his face.

"Stop taking over my job," Hogan pretended to pout. It felt good to let off some steam with one of the only men he let his guard down in front of.

Taking the energy to shrug almost wasn't worth it, but Kinch did it anyway. "You're the one that gave Newkirk mine."

"_Touché_," the Colonel admitted. "I know how much the radio means to you, but I also knew you'd understand."

"If I can't do my job I'd be more upset if it didn't get done than by the fact that it wasn't done by me."

Hogan could see the black man's energy fading and hurried to finish the conversation, dreading the fact that he did not know when, if ever, he would be able to resume it. "Don't worry, Kinch. We'll take good care of it...and you. Before you know it, Dr. Füchschen will be here and you'll be using your precious radio to help me pull one over on the Krauts in no time."

"Thanks, Colonel…." Kinch slurred as he closed his eyes.

The Colonel reached over and tucked the well-worn blanket more snuggly around the sleeping man. "You're welcome, Kinch," he replied softly. "Try to get some sleep."

He wanted to say more. He wanted to admit to someone that he felt nauseous with fear that the help Newkirk had finally found would come too late. He wanted to tell Kinch how much he relied on him and appreciated his dedication, strength, and understanding from the first day of his arrival. It had been the black sergeant, after all, who had been the first to salute him when he stumbled out of the SS staff car and was manhandled into Colonel Klink's office. Kinch had also been the first to trust him with knowledge of the already-in-progress clandestine movements within the camp. The day he had shown Hogan his first jerry-rigged radio and dialed in the BBC was the genesis day of the colonel's traveler's assistance program.

"You're going to be okay," Hogan placed a hand on Kinch's forehead. "Because the operation can't survive without you. It wouldn't be here without you. _We_ can't survive without you."

The few hours left before roll call crept by uneventfully until weak rays of sunlight began seeping between the cracks in the office's shutters. Morning truly arrived when he heard a metal tin clatter to the floor followed by a muffled French curse. _'Roll call in about fifteen minutes,'_ Hogan thought as he blinked blearily to refocus his wandering, sleep deprived mind and glanced at his watch. It was just enough time to grab a few gulps of coffee while deciding who would watch after Kinch during roll call. He was not willing to relive the heart-wrenching consequences of leaving the sick man alone, no matter what Colonel Klink demanded. Another turn for the worse could mean death.

Leaving the door open to his office, he walked into the common room, over to the stove, and poured himself a generous helping of coffee. The men appeared to be moving slower this morning or, like Newkirk and Carter, not at all. Normally chipper early-risers were oozing off of their bunks and slouching to their lockers for fresh clothing. Even Lebeau, who had rudely awoken himself by carelessly burning his hand on the stove while making coffee, was struggling half-heartedly with his sweater and his inability to distinguish which holes in it were meant for appendages and which weren't.

Luckily for Hogan, he had just what the doctor ordered to dispel the worry-induced lethargy. "Lebeau," he walked over and tugged the red shirt into place to see his subordinate clearly, "I need you and Newkirk to go out tonight."

"What for, _Colonél_?" the Frenchman asked suspiciously. He could not believe that the Colonel would send him out on a mission for the Underground under present circumstances, but he also knew that any orders they received would be fulfilled on London's bureaucratic timetable, not theirs. Bitterly, he knew they did not care about his suffering friend and their need to be with him.

"Newkirk will be arranging the details today," Hogan informed him, being careful to keep a nonchalant expression on his face, "but you'll be bringing someone in through the tunnels—Dr. Füchschen is the name I believe."

His blasé delivery was not enough to conceal the possibilities of the message. "Do you mean…."

"Yes. And it's all thanks to Newkirk."

Mention of his name prompted the Englander to groan and inform them, "Yes, that would be me, Newkirk, who deserves more sleep than he's bloody well going to get around here. The least you could do is keep it quiet until—"

The door burst open, interrupting Newkirk's rant. "_Raus! Raus!_ Everybody out! Roll call!"

Another, louder, more pitiful moan.

"Get up, Newkirk! You too, Carter!" Schultz continued to bellow as he pounded on their bunk to encourage them. "Oh, Colonel Hogan, how is Sergeant Kinchloe doing today?"

"Not too good, Schultz," Hogan watched the Sergeant of the Guard's face fall, and pounced on the opportunity, "which is why I'd like to have Carter stay with him during roll call."

The portly German shook his head sadly, "I cannot do that, Colonel Hogan. The Big Shot says no one except Sergeant Kinchloe is allowed to stay in the Barracks." Leaning towards Hogan conspiratorially he added in a whisper, "Colonel Klink thinks the SS has wired the camp to spy on him after they rifled through the camp last week. He says they want to ruin his record and that makes him most insistent."

"Hmm…" Hogan contemplated the possibilities of bugs, besides their own of course, wired through the camp and promptly dismissed it. If there were any he or his men would have found evidence of them within the first day. Usually, Klink's paranoia of the SS worked to their advantage but, as with everything else recently, his fear was not only unwarranted but also very inopportune at that moment. "Shultz, I doubt the SS installed cameras along with their sound equipment—"

"You mean they _are_ listening?"

"No, Shultz. What I'm trying to say is: why don't you simply count one of us more than once, knowing that Carter's watching after Kinch, and report us all present and accounted for?"

"But you would not all be present!"

"But we would be accounted for."

"Please, Colonel Hogan," the German pleaded, "just go outside. Lying to an officer could cost me my life!"

Hogan crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, knowing he could always win a battle of wills against Schultz. It was only a matter of time. "No, Carter stays."

"Colonel Hogan…." Shultz whined. As he cowered against the onslaught of Hogan's forceful personality, a very unexpected thing happened. He had an idea. A good one. One inspired by two things that defined his very person—food and an endearing, bumbling kindness.

Handing Hogan his rifle, much to the Colonel's surprise, he stumbled out the door in haste. "I will be right back," he yelled back to them, "I have something that will make you happy and keep me from being shot."

Hogan looked at the rifle in his hands with bewilderment. He imagined this was how the Krauts felt when he pulled a fast one on them. Newkirk, propping his head up on his hand, ventured, "Colonel, what do you think…?"

"I have no idea."

The barracks continued getting ready with a peculiar sense of dread hanging over them. It wasn't so much that they feared that Schultz could get them into trouble. Instead, Hogan was concerned that Schultz might do something so outrageous that they wouldn't be able to protect him from the repercussions. The Colonel was only able to pace the length of the room four times before the German guard burst in again, a weather-beaten thermos tucked under one arm.

Breathless from his shuffle across the compound, Schultz gasped for air with his hands resting on his stomach. As soon as he caught his breath, he held out the thermos to Hogan. Rather than trading it for Schultz's rifle, Hogan kept both. "What is this?" he asked, shaking the thermos by his ear.

Straightening, Schultz's face was alight with the childish joy he often showed when he was especially proud of himself. "I asked Colonel Klink for an 8-hour pass to visit my wife last night. That is something she made. Her food isn't very good, but it is better than Newkirk's—"

"Oy! Would people leave my cooking alone!?"

"But when any of my children are sick she makes a broth recipe from her mother, God rest her soul, that cures them. I told her that Sergeant Kinchloe was one of the guards, one without a wife or girlfriend, who was ill with no one to care for him. She could not bear the thought of someone alone and miserable and gave me this broth to give to him. If you give it to the Sergeant, I am sure he will get better."

Obviously Schultz was still trying to make peace after the American had blown up at him and Klink the day before. It was touching how much Schultz valued their relationship which was, strangely, based on mutual understanding and trust between men who should have been bitter enemies. Leaning the rifle against the table in the center of the room, Hogan put a paternal hand on the German's shoulder. "Thanks, Shultz. As soon as Kinch is awake we'll give him some and let him know where it came from. But that doesn't help us right now."

"Oh!" Schultz exclaimed. He looked down at his feet, as if suddenly nervous about what he was about to propose. "Langenscheidt is outside and said he would count you today. That means I could…I could stay with the sergeant."

"You Shultz?" Hogan asked skeptically.

"I wouldn't do anything to him!" Schultz assured him hurriedly. "You're the nicest enemies I've ever known! Sergeant Kinchloe even gives me some of his Red Cross chocolates and lets me complain to him about the troubles I have with my children. He's very good with children, you know."

'_Certainly enough to help wrangle the ones around here,_' Hogan thought, remembering the times Kinch had kept Newkirk and Lebeau's nationalistic loyalties in check by dragging them apart and scolding them into shamed apologies.

"Okay, if that's the way it needs to be," the Colonel finally acceded. "As soon as _appell_ is over Carter will take over from you."

Schultz's face lit up like a sabotaged German munitions train. "_Jawohl_, Colonel Hogan!" He saluted.

Handing the thermos back to Shultz, Hogan began herding his men out the door. "Take good care of him," he ordered, aware of the concerned—for some men, outright disbelieving—expressions on the faces of some of the POWs. What mattered, however, was that Carter, Newkirk and Lebeau stepped out the door without hesitation. They knew that having Kinch under Schultz's 'watchful' eyes was second only to their own presences.

Confident that Schultz would alert him to any change in his subordinate's condition, Hogan walked calmly out the door of _Barracks 2_. His placid expression belied a mind whirring with expectation of what might happen when Dr. Füchschen finally arrived and diagnosed Kinch. Throughout Klink's mandatory 'abandon all hope, ye who enter here' speech, Hogan occupied himself by brainstorming how he would respond to different outcomes. Over and over his mind returned to one possibility and the inevitable moral dilemma it would provoke. If the doctor determined that Kinch's illness was fatal without extensive treatment, he would have to choose between compromising the mission and letting a good friend and soldier die.

Roll call passed quickly as he mulled over his distasteful and limited options, coming to no decision he could live with. Returning the barracks, he put a hand on Carter's shoulder. "Grab breakfast," he suggested, "then you can take over from Schultz on a full stomach."

Newkirk snorted, "Schultz has a full enough stomach for the both of them."

The colonel glared at him good-naturedly. "I'm going to check in on Kinch. Call me if you need me."

As he approached his office, Hogan heard the unmistakable sound of Schultz's voice. He seemed to be conversing with someone. Entering the room and expecting to see his sergeant once again awake, he was surprised to see Kinch still unconscious. A damp rag was draped over his forehead as his fever raged anew, and Schultz was speaking earnestly to him. Careful not to interrupt, Hogan leaned against the wall just inside the door and listened.

"…he is a good boy and treats Eliza well, but I cannot keep myself from worrying over her. Trust her, you say. But I know one day she will not come home because she wants to start her own family. Then I will have lost my little girl, my family."

'_Ah, Eliza,'_ Hogan reminisced about his few meetings with Schultz's oldest daughter. _'How did someone so beautiful come from that combination of parents?'_

The early twenties beauty had visited her father a handful of times at the camp, causing a ruckus among the unruly POWs each time she passed through the front gate. Now it seemed that the local boys had begun wooing her, much to her overprotective father's chagrin. Apparently the Sergeant of the Guard had been coming to Kinch for advice on the situation. It might have seemed odd at first, considering that the black man did not have any children of his own, but Kinch did have more experience than anyone at _Stalag 13 _with the agony of waiting and the possibility of losing someone he cared about.

"What should I do, Sergeant Kinchloe?"

"I'm afraid he can't help you right now," Hogan finally made his presence known. "But I have a feeling he would tell you that you have to trust your daughter."

Schultz turned to look at the American, considering Hogan's words and the calm wisdom he seemed to be channeling from the unconscious man. "You're right, Colonel Hogan. He trusts you and your boys to come back to the barracks, no matter how long he has to wait. Worrying is part of the territory, some times so much it makes you sick, but not to worry would mean you did not care. That is what Sergeant Kinchloe always tells me."

"You should listen to him," Hogan advised. "Kinch has never steered me wrong before."

Shultz nodded, "He cares about you, Colonel Hogan, and Lebeau, Newkirk and Carter very much."

"I know," Hogan assured him softly. "I know."

Schultz looked at the tenderness Hogan used as the Colonel placed the back of his hand against Kinch's cheek to check his temperature. Part of the reason he cooperated with the Allied prisoners as much as he did was because, deep down inside, an ever-growing part of him wanted to be included in the tight knit group that Hogan led. He had decided a long time ago that during the next war he was going to volunteer for the Allied side.

Lost in their respective thoughts, both men were startled when Carter poked his head into the office. "Um, Colonel? I'm ready to take over."

"Come on in, Carter." Hogan waved him inside. "It's about time Shultz got back to work, wouldn't you say?"

The older sergeant nodded and stood. Looking around the room, his eyes widened in fear as he realized a very important item of his was missing. "Colonel," he whimpered, "My gun…"

Hogan smiled. "It's next to the door, Schultz," he assured the distraught man. "Have fun on guard duty!" Before the portly guard could completely disappear, Hogan yelled after him, "Thanks, Schultz."

"Your welcome, Colonel Hogan!" he replied happily. With those simple words, he knew that any hatred the American had professed the day before wasn't truly meant. They were, as Schultz had always suspected, still the friendliest of enemies.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hogan watched as Newkirk handed Shultz his gun and nearly shoved him out the door. Using one of his shirtsleeves to clear a frosted windowpane, the RAF pilot peeked out onto the desolate parade ground to make sure Schultz wasn't going to double back. Hogan winced in sympathy as the Englishman took a deep breath, a deeper swig of the blackest ersatz coffee he had ever brewed, and hit the latch to trigger the tunnel entrance. If it had been possible, the Colonel would have ordered Newkirk to get more sleep and used someone else to coordinate Dr. Füchschen's pick up. The jittery nature of the espionage game, however, made him certain that the Englander's newly-developed rapport with _die geschlossene Rose_ would be invaluable as they coordinated the nighttime rendezvous.

"Well, it looks like Kinch is soon to be on his way to recovery," Hogan commented from the doorway as he watched Newkirk descend into the tunnels. When Carter didn't reply, the Colonel turned to scrutinize him. If his expression was any indication, the gloom circulating around the barracks had obviously gotten to the young American and his CO felt obligated to try cheering him up. "I'm sure he'll be up and around in no time at all, wouldn't you say, Carter?"

"I don't know, Colonel," the young man replied with uncertainty. Patting the sweat away from Kinch's face with the rag, Carter wrung it out before re-wetting it from the basin of water Schultz had placed beside the bed. After returning the compress to the sick man's forehead, the explosives expert continued to stare at his friend and his transparent face told Hogan that something unusual was eating away at him.

"What's wrong, Carter? You're usually the one buoying everyone else's spirits."

"Sorry, Colonel, but I'm not feeling very buoyant today."

Hogan walked over and squatted next to his sergeants. Placing his hand on Carter's leg in what he hoped was a comforting gesture he said, "It's going to be okay."

"You sound like Lebeau, and he sounds like Newkirk," Carter grumped sourly. "It's all you guys can say to me: 'It's gonna be okay, Carter', 'Don't worry, Carter', 'Kinch'll be right as rain in no time, Carter'. I know what's going on and I know it's serious! I wish you guys would stop treating me like a little kid."

"Nobody thinks you're a kid, Carter," Hogan placated him, even as he knew it was a lie. Carter knew too.

What Carter didn't realize was how necessary it was for their group to have someone to look out for, someone whose day-to-day presence reminded them of the naïveté they had once held as boys when they pretended to play war, not actively engaged in it. Their youngest comrade also reminded them of the people they left back home, the ones that they hoped to return to, and how desperately they wanted to act unchanged by the horrors of war when they were finally able to wrap their arms around their loved ones again.

"You guys do too think I'm a kid," he protested, "but you're right in saying that I'm not. I mean, I wouldn't want any kid doing what I do—blowing up people and calculating how to kill with my little chemistry set. That'd just be wrong, don't you see?"

Maybe that was the problem, Hogan considered. They all _wanted_ Andrew Jackson Carter to be the kid of their outfit, but no matter how bumbling, precocious or childish he acted they could not reconcile his actions with his attitude. Hogan's heart constricted as his mind finally put into words what he and the US Army had done: _'You made Carter a killer_.'

"You're right," the Colonel agreed, "children don't belong in wars." Silently he added, _'That's why we're doing everything we can to keep up the façade that you're not in one, no matter how cheesy and fake we all know it is_.'

Sensing that there was more to his commanding officer's words than he was letting on, Carter assumed that he had upset Hogan with his tirade. Not wanting the man he admired feeling upset, he tried to soften the harshness of his complaint. "It's not that I don't appreciate it some times, Colonel," he explained, "it's just, well, I've seen men die before. I can handle it. What I wouldn't be able to handle is walking in here one day and finding Kinch dead without having the chance to say goodbye because you guys were protecting me."

"You have my word as your commanding officer that I won't let that happen," Hogan assured him, even as he shied away from the mental image of his men grieving around the composed but lifeless body of his radioman.

Unaware of the vision in Hogan's mind, Carter's voice took on a more conversational tone as he asked, "Did you know that Kinch was the first black man I ever talked to. Honest to goodness. And I was kind of scared to talk to him, if you can believe it."

"You? Scared to talk? You're right, I don't believe it." Glad for the diversion, Hogan played along.

Carter tried to shrug nonchalantly, but the red tinge to his cheeks belied his mild embarrassment. "There aren't any Negroes in Bulfrog, Colonel, but I'd heard them on the radio before. None of them sounded like Kinch, though. He was so…confident all the time, not like me at all, and never made stupid mistakes like me."

"Kinch never thought you were stupid," Hogan assured him, though he knew it wasn't necessary. It was true that the radioman sometimes grew exasperated with his fellow sergeant to the point of yelling, but his harsh words were never out of malice. Kinch had simply grown up in an inner city world where people were told with blunt honesty when someone a mistake because repetition of an error was at the risk of one's life.

Carter nodded enthusiastically. "If he did, he wouldn't have answered all of the questions I had when I first got here. I mean, everyone was friendly at first, but no one wanted to tell me what I really needed to know to get along here. All I had to do was answer some of his questions. I thought they'd be about home, but they were mostly about you."

"About me?" Hogan's eyebrows rose in interest. "What kind of questions did he ask?"

"Oh! All sorts of stuff, Colonel," Carter began counting them off on his fingers, "Like where you were from, what unit you were with, what kind of officer you were. I remember him asking me if I knew you well enough to know whether or not you could be trusted."

With a smirk, Hogan decided to put his subordinate on the spot. "So, what did you say?"

Another blush. "I told him that I didn't know too much about you as an officer, but I knew that you'd gone back into your bomber after it'd been shot down to get your men out."

'_Even though they were already dead, by impact or fire. I was lucky, I was thrown.'_ No matter how many times the Colonel assured himself that their deaths weren't in vain, that he hadn't started his wayfarers' station in an attempt to ease his survivor's guilt, he knew he would never fully believe it.

Hogan fought to keep the memories from reflecting on his face by lightheartedly complaining, "So I have you to thank for the good character reference. If it weren't for you I might have never gotten this job."

"You mean Kinch would never have trusted you with it. That's what Newkirk told me, at least."

"Right," Hogan agreed, remembering when the RAF flyer had taken him aside and informed him in no uncertain terms that Kinch was the coordinator of all escape attempts in _Barrack 2._

It wasn't until many months later that Newkirk admitted to him that they did not have a coordinated escape committee, and certainly not one headed by a black man. The confession had been his own back-handed way of asking for forgiveness because the first thing he had done to his now-beloved superior officer was lie to him. But, since it was Newkirk, the deception had been for a good end. He had wanted to ensure that Hogan respected the African American man he had come to see as a valued friend.

Hogan assumed that Newkirk had spread his rumor about Kinch's 'position' to Carter as insurance, just in case the Colonel would only listen to other Americans. What Hogan didn't realize until that moment was that Carter continued to maintain the deception even long after it was no longer necessary. From the day Newkirk constructed his lie until the present Carter had faithfully stuck to it, not wanting his RAF friend to get into trouble.

Carter had been wandering around the barracks in the early afternoon the day the deception began, still unsure of what he was going to do to keep himself from going mad through the endless hours, days, weeks, months and, he shuddered to think, years in a POW camp. The young American couldn't keep the thought from entering his mind: _'I want to go home…'_

"Hey there now, you haven't been here long enough to look that glum," a friendly, British-accented voice hailed from behind him. "We're really not bad sorts once you get to know us."

"Oh, uh, no I don't think you are," Carter stammered, "I mean, uh…"

"Corporal Newkirk, Peter Newkirk," the Englander's calm expression helped steady Carter's nerves. "If we're going to be bunkmates, we'd best be friendly, wouldn't you say?"

"Um, yeah," the sergeant held out his hand, "My name's Andrew Carter."

"Well, Carter," Newkirk shook his hand heartily before throwing a sociable arm around his shoulder. "Mind if I ask you something?"

"Sure, anything."

"Have you met Sergeant Kinchloe, yet?" As much as he tried to make the question sound innocuous it was obvious even to Carter that there was more subtext to it.

His mom had always taught him that honesty kept a person from getting hanged in their own web of lies, and Andrew Carter always listened to his mother, so he admitted, "Sure have, but I don't think he likes me very much."

"Doesn't like you?" Newkirk couldn't help but laugh. He had come with his best wit to ply away any hint of racism the American might have. And now, here he was, about to reassure the white boy that he wasn't hated. "I think he's going to like you just fine," he assured Carter. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, Newkirk abruptly changed the subject. "Hey, you wouldn't want to play gin, would you?"

"Really?" Carter's face lit up at the prospect. "If you teach me."

"Why don't I teach you, Carter?" Looking up, both men saw the backlit silhouette of none other than Sergeant Kinchloe leaning against the doorjamb. He'd been helping clear out the Officer's Quarters for the imminent arrival of a new colonel when he overheard the discussion. "I'll also show you how to watch your back around card sharks and cheaters like Newkirk."

"Slandering my good name to my new mate—that's low Kinch."

Kinch crossed his arms over his chest. "As low as you testing Carter to see if he's going to cause trouble for me without me knowing." While he appreciated the intent, he was furious about the Englishman's presumptuousness. The last thing Kinch wanted was to have Newkirk and Lebeau causing trouble as they tried in vain to change something that he had learned long ago he could do nothing about.

"Trouble?" Carter took a step back, finally realizing that he was getting himself involved in something that might not end well for the new man on the block, so to speak. Trying to extricate himself from the situation he assured Kinch, "I don't want to cause you any trouble, sir, honest."

The radioman rolled his eyes. "We're the same rank, Carter. You don't have to call me 'sir'. It's 'Kinch'. And _you_ aren't the one in trouble," he raked his hard gaze back to Newkirk, "he is."

"Look," Newkirk wasn't one to back down from a fight, "I'm doing this to protect you. If this new Colonel is a bigot, Lebeau and I'll get rid of him for the good of everyone here. If not, well, we'll let him stay. Either way, we need to know."

Kinch rubbed his temples, trying desperately not to let his frustration explode in front of the new guy. "Newkirk, I appreciate what you're trying to do, really, but Colonel Hogan is an officer. That means we do what he says whether he likes us or not, and we _don't_ conspire against him. Just…let me handle it, okay?"

"You think you can handle everything by yourself, don't you?" Newkirk yelled, losing his loosely-reigned composure. "But one day you're going to realize you can't—that you can't keep putting yourself in danger to protect us."

"I'm not protecting you!"

"The bloody hell you're not! Before, you saved Louis's skin, now you're afraid that I'll get caught conspiring against an officer and get court martialled. Well, let me tell you—Peter Newkirk doesn't get caught."

Kinch threw up his hands and stormed out the door. "Do whatever you want!"

Even though he had just arrived, Carter could sense the pain of a fight between friends keenly radiating from his new bunkmate. Creeping forward, he decided to take a risk. "Um, Newkirk, if you think it would help…uh, I could ask the Colonel how he feels about Sergeant Kinchloe. Maybe I could pretend I don't like him and see how the Colonel reacts. It might be less suspicious that way. Since I'm new and everything."

Newkirk looked at him, surprised. Apparently getting involved in other people's business was a more common trait in Americans than he thought. "Too obvious," he said, shaking his head. "Besides, I've got a better idea. I'll tell the Colonel that Kinch is in charge of escape operations in our barracks. If he's fine with that, he's fine with the rest of us. It means he doesn't care who gets things done, just that they do."

Everything went according to plan, with the additional benefit of Kinch apologizing for his outburst to both Carter and Newkirk a few days later. "It's because of Kinch that you became Mama Bear I became such good friends with Newkirk," Carter realized, drawing himself back into the present. "I owe him a lot."

It amazed Hogan how much subtle manipulation went on before he arrived at _Stalag 13_ and how much he had been played when he first arrived. The first salute Kinch had given him, which he originally interpreted as a sign of respect, had really been a warning to Newkirk to behave. No wonder they survived so well when he was away. Even without him they were as sneaky as hell.

"Then take care of him," Hogan advised.

"I will, sir, you can count on me."

Hogan nodded, encouraged by the earnestness of Carter's reply. "I know I can, on all of you." It was a fact that had become blatantly clear over the past few days as they struggled against Kinch's rapidly-progressing disease and the only thing still giving him hope that they might emerge from their latest trial alive.

Author's Note:

So, now everyone had met everyone else, historically speaking. Obviously I took quite a few creative liberties in this part of the story with back story and family history and made the monarchical decision that Schutz knows about the goings-on in _Barracks 2_ and turns a blind eye to it. Plus, I don't know about anyone else, but I can definitely see Kinch and Newkirk butting heads at times. I think it's in their personalities. If you disagree, let me know why!

Thanks also to everyone (especially konarciq) who is helping with translation issues! I'd love to be able to blame my translation errors on an online translator, but being the old fuddy-duddy that I am, I fall back on paper translation dictionaries. Any errors are purely my own. Thanks also to my fantastic beta reader viggosloof28 who has been so kind to take time out of her busy schedule to indulge my writing vice.

Next Time:

Lebeau's passions get the better of him (for the worse) and Dr. Füchschen arrives (and takes no prisoners, both literally and figuratively).


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

In which significant changes occur (both within and without the fourth wall)

Leaving Carter to care for their compatriot, Hogan passed the rest of the day in anxiousness. Exhaustion drove him to grab a few hours of sleep shortly after roll call in one of his men's bunk, commandeered by virtue of his rank. He woke from his nap when Newkirk shook his shoulder and informed him that he had successfully confirmed the night's route and pickup point. Unable to fall back to sleep, he decided to burn off his apprehension by pacing inside, outside and around the compound. He walked back and forth in front of Klink's window so many times that the frustrated commandant threw it open at one point demanding, "Is there something you want, Colonel Hogan?"

"Sure," he retorted, "A hot shower every day, a nice steak, women. Lots of women. Lots of beautiful women."

Klink harrumphed, obviously not amused. He did notice, however, that there was a particular spring in Hogan's step that he had not seen since the American had stormed out of his office a day ago. Nervous energy seemed to crackle around him like a live wire. "You'd better not be up to something, Hogan," he warned. "Don't think I will go easier on you simply because one of your men is ill. He…is still ill, isn't he?"

"Yes," Hogan replied, but the anger Klink expected to hear in his voice was not present. "But on the mend soon, we hope."

Klink adjusted his monocle. "Yes, well, good. I can't afford to have your men interfering with the efficient running of this camp simply because they are feeling a little under the weather."

'_Nazi to English translation: Get well soon,'_ Hogan thought. Aloud he suggested, "Bring in some girls, Commandant, and I'm sure he'd be better in no time. They have that affect on men, you know." Leaving Klink to splutter at the audacity of his request, he walked away to tread a line of anticipation in a different part of the camp yard.

As he paced between the candy-cane striped guard houses in front of the main gate, he saw Sergeant Wilson walking towards him with his shoulders caved in. Something had obviously distressed him and Hogan could only dread what it was. To mask his anxiety he called out, "What's the news, Wilson?"

"I…don't know, Colonel," the medic admitted. "I know that's the last thing you want to hear, but I can't make heads or tails out of what's going on. There are too many possibilities and still no way to narrow down the field."

"If London or God would wise up and send us a real doctor," Hogan complained, "think of all the trouble we'd be spared. Think of the men we could have saved."

Wilson sighed, knowing that many of the flyers who didn't make it had died by a combination of German weaponry and his own medical shortcomings. He appreciated the fact that his commanding officer did not highlight his medical shortcomings, but there was always the unspoken understanding that they both wished he knew more. "I'll keep doin' what I can," he offered, knowing how hollow is words were, "But if things continue at this rate…"

The silence weighed more heavily than the spoken words would have.

"If it comes to that, we'll do what we have to do," was all Hogan could think of to say. Every conversation inevitably turned to his organization's inability to help one of their own and his own indecision regarding his role in Kinch's possible fate. If he was forced to chose between sacrificing his friend or his operation, he would be paralyzed.

Wilson laid a hand on the Colonel's shoulder. "I'm sorry, sir. I wish I could do more."

"I'm not going to lose him," Hogan whispered, his voice hard with conviction. "I'm not. We've never failed in anything important before and I don't plan on starting now."

If he was dubious about Hogan's claim, Wilson kept it to himself. Instead, he tried to help by assuring his CO, "If there's anyone who can figure a way out of this it's you, Colonel. Have a little faith."

"Yeah." Without another word, Hogan wandered off to resume his pacing, more frustrated than ever.

Returning to Barracks 2, Wilson wrung his hands in indecision as his gaze scanned over the occupants. Malinowski was on watch in the Colonel's office while the rest of the men puttered uselessly around the main room, their listlessness from the morning having returned. Catching Lebeau's sleeve as he walked by, Wilson asked,

"Can you spare a moment, Corporal?"

The Frenchman perked up, hopeful that the medic might have some encouraging news. "Of course."

Steering Lebeau towards a corner of the room and knowing that the rest of the men would give them as much privacy as possible, Wilson confided, "I'm worried about Colonel Hogan."

"_Colonél_ Hogan?" Lebeau echoed in confusion "What happened?"

"Not happened—is happening," Wilson corrected. "He's tearin' himself to pieces over Kinch's condition. I've seen him under tremendous amounts of pressure before and usually he thrives on it. This time it's different. If we're not careful we'll have a whole 'nother set of problems on our hands with him."

Lebeau stared at the floor, unsure if he could explain to Wilson what he knew in his heart to be the problem. He had identified long ago that Kinch had filled the hole in Hogan's heart and confidence once filled by his long-lost flight crew. The radioman was the one man that, despite questions or initial hesitations, Hogan could rely on for unwavering support and the successful execution of his sometimes ludicrous plans. The idea of losing that faith, again, to the German war machine was devastating. Lebeau knew from personal experience.

"Since I am not watching Kinch right now, I will watch _Colonél_ Hogan. He is a man of action and right now the only thing he can do is berate himself for not doing anything. It does not matter to him that there is nothing we can do right now. Once night falls and we leave to get the doctor he will return to his own self."

Wilson nodded, impressed with the Frenchman's diagnosis. "Thanks, Lebeau. I was feelin' a bit low myself because I felt like I couldn't do anythin', but when you're right, you're right. There's nothin' we can do for now except watch after each other."

"Without the _Colonél_ knowing, of course," Lebeau added.

Wilson smiled and rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "He would throw a fit if he knew we were worrying over him, wouldn't he? Officers can be so finicky."

"Officers are men, no more, no less," Lebeau philosophized as he walked towards the door, "though _Colonél_ Hogan wishes he could be more. It is that flaw that drives him and lets us accomplish what we do. We would not have him be any other way."

Watching Hogan proved to be almost insultingly simple as the American stalked the camp grounds in self-absorbed obliviousness and the rest of the afternoon crept by. After evening roll call, during which Schultz once again watched over Kinch, the Colonel descended into the tunnels to see off Newkirk and Lebeau. He could feel the pressure the two men were under, making them more unfocused and stressed than usual. Above them, Carter lay on his bunk wide awake and jumpy, staring at the empty bed above him through the darkness. He was on diversion duty in the event of a surprise bed check, but his mind was with the men going out to find Dr. Füchschen.

Before the two Europeans took the emergency tunnel ladder to the outside world, Hogan stopped them with a look. He was about to say something that was harsh but true—something that he didn't want to say, but the commander in him knew he had to. "I don't have to tell you how important this mission is to us," he reminded his men as they double checked their grease paint, "but don't let your hearts overrule your heads. If the Krauts are on your tail, scrap the rendezvous. We still have enough time to try again or find another way."

"You got it, Gov'nor," Newkirk nodded, laying a restraining hand on Lebeau's arm when he looked like he was going to argue. "We'll be careful."

Turning away from Hogan, Lebeau mumbled menacingly, "And if any _bosche_ get in the way," he cocked his pistol, "I will take care of them."

If their commanding officer overheard, he chose to say nothing. Instead he sent them off with the customary, "Stay safe," and sat down to wait.

The hours ticked by. To keep himself from going mad, Hogan made himself artificially comfortable by kicking up his feet on Kinch's table, nursing three cups of coffee, and managed to reach page 86 of Kinch's mystery novel. Of course, because of his worry, he couldn't remember at least fifty of those pages. At the first scraping sounds from their secret hatch, Hogan's feet came crashing to the ground as he hurriedly closed the book and jogged to the tunnel entrance.

By the time he got there, Lebeau was at the bottom of the ladder, dusting the snow out of his hair. "Where's Newkirk?" Hogan demanded.

"Coming with Dr. Füchschen," Lebeau looked up at the Colonel with a five-mile grin of success on his face.

Newkirk came down next, his face alight with the same glow of triumph. Hopping down to the dirt floor, he called up, "It's all right! You can come down now!"

Relief crashed against Hogan, nearly sending him to the floor. Füchschen's arrival, he hoped, would make his internal debate moot and he promptly shelved all thoughts of sacrificing his crew or the goals they worked for into the recesses of his mind.

The doctor who descended behind his men almost made Hogan laugh out loud in lieu of his earlier conversation with Klink. Perhaps the Universe was trying to tell him that it was ready to start working with him again. Newkirk reached up to grab her around the waist and help her to the ground. When she had straightened herself, the cream-skinned brunette looked at Hogan squarely in the eyes. "Where is my patient, Colonel Hogan?" she asked pointedly.

"Dr. Füchschen?" Hogan could hardly believe his eyes. This beauty in the off-white blouse and deep mahogany pencil skirt was like no doctor he had ever met. Her little black bag of supplies landed at her feet.

"Please, Colonel," she wasted no time grabbing her bag and began briskly walking away from the ladder, assuming that the sick man she had been sent to see must be in that direction. "If you or your men want to ogle a woman, I suggest you look elsewhere. I have a job to do."

Tweaking his initial evaluation of her, Hogan decided that Füchschen was still stunning, but the pretty package concealed a heart of ice. Perhaps the Universe wasn't quite finished with them yet. "He's upstairs," he informed her.

With a haughty huff, she used her free hand to motion him forward. "Do you expect me to find the way myself?"

"By all means, please follow me." Hogan gestured grandiosely, but the mimicry was either lost on her or purposefully ignored. As the Colonel walked by Lebeau he rolled his eyes and commented sourly, "Quite the gem you boys picked up."

For some reason the Frenchman was still grinning. "But she's going to help Kinch," Lebeau reminded him. "I would deal with the devil himself if I thought it would help."

The small chastisement reminded Hogan of the endgame he had been distracted from only moments earlier, first by the doctor's arrival and shortly thereafter by her attitude. Climbing through the floor and back into the barracks, he reached down to grab the woman's handbag, freeing her to use both hands to come up. "Colonel," a groggy voice came out of the darkness. "Are Newkirk and Lebeau back?"

"Yeah, and they brought the good doctor with them," Hogan informed Carter, who had apparently fallen asleep despite his anxiousness. A happy gasp and thump as something solid hit the floor evidenced the young man's excitement. Shaking his head good-naturedly, he suggested, "Don't get out of bed, Carter. If we need you, we'll call."

By that time, Füchschen had arrived in the bunk room. The sheer number of men she was surrounded by, alone, intimidated her, but she carefully schooled her expression into one of professional neutrality before her discomfort could be used against her. It cracked slightly when a young voice from the dark said gratefully, "Thank you, ma'am, for taking care of Kinch."

"You're welcome, young man," she replied softly, unsure of where to direct her voice as her eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness. "I will do everything I can to help."

A few more seconds brought her night vision in to focus enough to see the grin on the face of the commanding officer she was following. "Do you find something amusing, Colonel?" she inquired as they left Carter to climb back into bed.

She could see the boyish twinkle in his eyes even in the shadows of the bunkroom. He surprised her by admitting, "I was just thinking that if _anyone_ could bring out the humanity in someone, it would be Carter. It looks like you do have a bedside manner after all, Doctor."

"Don't be patronizing," she glowered at him, but it was hard when he had just complimented her in a strange, roundabout way. She had come to _Stalag 13_ expecting to meet a group of men like the one she heard over the radio—composed, intelligent, and an expert at what he did. So far, the Frenchman, Englander and American whom she had met had been lewd and dense, but she was beginning to think that their superficial actions masked an expertise in espionage that rivaled hers in medicine.

"Kinch, the man you know of as 'Padua', is through this door," Hogan gestured towards his office.

"Thank you, Colonel. You can wait outside," she dismissed him.

"No." The answer was immediate and final.

"Excuse me?"

"No," he pushed his way forward, opened the door and walked in. Stunned at his audacity, Füchschen hesitated outside the door long enough for him to poke his head around the door frame and asked pointedly, "Are you coming?"

Rather than dignify him with an answer, she huffed again and entered. As she watched Hogan fumble for his desk lamp, she was distracted by the pained, heavy breathing echoing through the room. Though the men of _Stalag 13_ thoroughly aggravated her, especially this Colonel, her heart could not ignore the sound of a suffering man.

"We can't draw too much attention here," Hogan informed her as the light finally flickered on. "Schultz and Klink will be willing to ignore or forgive a little light from here after lights-out because of Kinch's condition, but we don't want them becoming too curious. This is all I can give you right now."

"I suppose it will have to do," she sighed, setting down her bag on the desk to rummage through it for her stethoscope. There was obviously something wrong with the man's lungs and her first focus was to determine what it was. Shadows from the top bunk and the single light source still cloaked the sick man's face as she sat on the edge of the bed and began her evaluation. It was only when she placed her hand on his forehead to informally gauge his temperature that she realized it was not shadows that turned Padua's face dark. Involuntary she jerked her hand back.

When she turned to look at Hogan, she saw him scrutinizing her closely with a serious expression on his face. "Problems, Doctor?"

"No…I…" she stammered. Taking a deep breath, she composed herself. "I will admit, Colonel, that my mental image of Padua from previous communication with him did not lead me to believe he was a black man. However, the physiology of a person does not change based on the color of his skin. There is no problem."

Hogan nodded in approval and she was surprised to find that she felt gratified by it. It was as if she had just passed a test she didn't know she was taking. Beginning her examination she asked, "What can you tell me about what I am facing here?"

Sitting down, Hogan gave her a synopsis of Kinch's deteriorating condition over the past few days and the constraints they were working under, culminating with a painfully honest, "There's a lot riding on your expertise, Doctor. Don't let us down."

Instead of answering, Füchschen angled her body towards her patient and began her examination in earnest. Watching her quick but deliberate movements, Hogan suddenly felt exhausted by comparison. The twilight glow of his desk lamp and the promise of a few hours of obliviousness to his concern beckoned him temptingly to sleep. If Füchschen noticed his drowsy silence as she continued her investigation, it was only in gratitude for it.

Though her expertise lay in orthopedics, the war had turned Füchschen into a general practitioner as her male counterparts were assigned to the various war fronts. Officially, she maintained the health of the north-Rhine region with dazzling results recognized by the various empty civilian awards bestowed upon her from the Nazi hierarchy. Unofficially she coordinated the smuggling of people to the relatively safe havens of Denmark and the Scandinavian peninsula while distributing medical material to various Underground units.

Meticulously, she identified the symptoms before her: fever, chills, respiratory complications. One by one they pushed her towards a single inevitable conclusion. To share her suspicions, she turned to Colonel Hogan and could not help but smile. He looked like a child, head drooped to his chest, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Shaking his shoulder gently, she whispered, "Colonel, perhaps you should get some sleep outside with the rest of your men." She could wait to tell him of her suspicions until they were confirmed.

"No," Hogan blinked owlishly and scrubbed at his face in an attempt to wipe away his sleepiness. "I'm not leaving Kinch. I will, however, get some coffee. Would you like some, _Frauline Doktor_?"

His dedication to his men was inspiring and sweet. As she suspected many others had done before her, Füchschen found herself beginning to tolerate the American. "I would like that very much, thank you."

Hogan stood and made his way to the door. As he noiselessly slid out the doctor took the opportunity rifle through her medical bag, tilting it towards the light to keep herself from poking herself with the syringe she sought. In the dim light she mistakenly took out three small liquid vials before finding the one she needed labeled 'tuberculin'. With expertise born of long practice she quickly loaded her syringe for an injection that would confirm or refute her theory.

When she turned back to her patient, intent on injecting his arm, she was caught off guard as she stared directly into his unblinking glare. With a single fluid motion he separated her from the needle, causing it to skitter across the floor under the Colonel's desk. Her cry of surprise sounded muffled to her, but it was enough to bring Hogan running, coffee sloshing out of the two mugs he carried. If the hot liquid burned his hands, it could not be seen past the panic on his face.

"What happened?!" he demanded.

"Calm down, Colonel," she said, hoping to avoid a scene. Rustling from behind the American officer indicated that he wasn't the only one who heard her distressed reaction. "I believe I frightened your Sergeant."

"I'm not inclined to trust strange people with needles pointed in my general direction," Kinch defended himself hoarsely, his fever-bright and suspicious gaze scanning across the room.

When Kinch's eyes finally landed on his commanding officer, Füchschen could sense something pass fleetingly between them. Though it was undecipherable to her, whatever communication occurred prompted the Sergeant to close his eyes and try to take two deep, even breaths. It was something he always did when he needed to trust one of Hogan's plans, despite his firm belief that it would get their entire operation killed. Instead of centering him, however, the pain that exploded in Kinch's chest from his two labored gasps caused him to lose focus completely.

"Kinch," Hogan began explaining calmly, struggling to keep his own emotions in check as he watch his subordinately face scrunched in repressed agony, "this is Doctor Füchschen. Remember? Newkirk and I told you she was coming."

"I--" Kinch faltered. He knew he should have been able to remember. The fact that he couldn't both frustrated and frightened him.

Anything Hogan might have said to reassure him was interrupted as Lebeau appeared suddenly, shouldered his way past the Colonel, and grabbed Füchschen's wrist and wrenched her away from her patient. "What are you doing!?" he demanded, seeing the expression of barely controlled pain on his dear friend's face. "You're hurting him!"

She tried to free herself from the Frenchman's grip. "Sir…I did nothing…."

"Lebeau, what do you think you're doing?" Hogan intervened, prying the two of them apart. Taking command of the situation before it spiraled completely out of his control, he roughly pushed Lebeau back towards the door. Newkirk, who had followed the Frenchman to the door after they had come up through the trap door, caught his compatriot by the shoulders as he stumbled back.

"She…she…I wasn't thinking…I didn't mean to…" Lebeau stammered, ashamed and frightened of what he had done.

"Colonel," Doctor Füchschen addressed him, rubbing her wrist and all traces of friendliness gone. "Perhaps you should have a word with your men. Accosting me is no way for them to act if they want my help."

"Newkirk, stay here with Kinch and the Doctor. Lebeau, to the radio room—Now." The cold fury in Hogan's voice brooked no argument. Silently, Lebeau complied.

Though he was unclear about what had transpired, Newkirk stood in awe at the anger he saw on Hogan's face. During his two years of association with the American, Newkirk had never seen Hogan as stonily furious as he did that moment. Unfortunately for them all, the only man with the tact necessary to diffuse the situation was too preoccupied with trying to breath to be of much use. Knowing he would have to somehow intervene before Hogan and Lebeau both perpetrated actions they would regret, Newkirk put out a hand to grab his commanding officer's arm and forced Hogan to pause before storming out the door. "He wouldn't have done any thing, Colonel. You know that. He's just upset."

"Sometimes there's no excuse," Hogan jerked his arm out of the Englander's grasp. Without further comment, he left.

Lebeau had taken the prudent action of scurrying down the ladder, leaving Hogan with a few precious moments to attempt wrestling himself under control. He knew he had overreacted, just as Lebeau had, but that realization did nothing to calm the anger he felt. Just when he thought everything was finally under control his overly emotional subordinate had nearly ruined their chances for success. "Lebeau?" he called down the tunnel, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "We need to talk."

There was no reply.

"Louis?" He took a few steps closer to the radio alcove.

"Here, _Colonél_ Hogan, as ordered,"

Rounding the corner, Hogan saw the Frenchman standing stiffly at attention and felt fury melt away when he looked at the misery on his subordinate's face. Lebeau's eyes glistened with the possibility of tears though he looked resolutely straight ahead.

Deflating, Hogan moved forward and put an uncertain hand on Lebeau's shoulder. "Louis…something tells me that anything I could say to dress you down would pale in comparison to the hell you're putting yourself through right now."

A single tear trailed down Lebeau's face. "Yes, sir."

"You're tired and obviously concerned about Kinch," Hogan tried to elicit more of a response. "We all are. But you're only making things worse by overreacting. If we lose the doctor, we lose him."

The compassion mixed with chastisement finally broke Lebeau from his at-attention trance. Looking up at his commander, the desolation on the Frenchman's face quietly broke Hogan's heart though he kept his face carefully schooled.

"You're right, _mon Colonél_, and I know Kinch will not talk to me for at least a week when he learns of what happened," Lebeau said miserably. "It is just…that…it is very difficult for me to think about losing another comrade in this horrible war…."

"It's difficult for all of us, Louis," Hogan placated, squeezing his shoulder.

Lebeau shook his head vigorously, looking away again. "Not like it is for me."

"What do you mean?" Hogan asked, unsure of what his subordinate was alluding to. "We've all lost friends in this war."

"Really?" Lebeau demanded. "For five years now my countrymen have been killed. Of my squadron I am the only one left alive and even I am captured twice over and stuck in this horrible _bosche_ POW camp. But we are soldiers, it is expected of us to die for France if necessary, and as soldiers those who have fallen in battle will be honored. That you understand.

"What you cannot understand are the ones who disappear, the men and women walking with their families on the boulevard in Paris one day who are never heard from again the next. They are members of the Resistance, _le Maquis_, or at least suspected to be. Members of my family, schoolmates and girlfriends—all vanished, possibly tortured, almost definitely killed. Their bodies will never be found, their graves forever unmarked, their accomplishments never honored."

"Lebeau…I…" Hogan was caught off guard by the passionate admission. "That won't happen here. I give you my word that no man here will die without the world knowing what he has risked and what he has done."

The corporal smiled sadly. "Thank you, _mon Cólonel_, but I have been at war long enough to know that you are making promises you cannot keep, especially doing what we do. It is not your fault—_c'est le guerre_."

Hogan couldn't say anything to reassure him because he knew what Lebeau said was true. When he had taken his first command position, he vowed that he would never lie to his men. If he pretended that he had no doubts that Kinch would survive, he would break one of the only rules of morality he still lived by. That promise, along with Kinch's assertions, which he would always say at the most necessary moment, was all that convinced him at times that he was still civilized.

The silence lengthened between them.

*********

Upstairs in Hogan's office, an awkward silence had descended upon the three remaining people. Breaking the stillness, Füchschen said softly, "It won't make a difference at this point, but I think you should know that I knew he wouldn't have done anything unforgivable. My comment only made the situation worse and for that I apologize."

"It's not your fault, Luv," Newkirk assured her. "If it hadn't happened now, it would have happened later. Too many people here are too close to Kinch. It makes us all a bit irrational."

"Which is exactly what you can't afford to be," Kinch chastised, having finally brought his breathing under control and joined the conversation. He was strangely glad exhaustion had made him too weak to stand and take control of the situation undoubtedly roiling below them. If he had any energy at all he wasn't sure that he would have been able to keep himself from beating some well-deserved sense into his commanding officer—rank be damned. "It might be better if I went ahead and checked out, seeing how much trouble the Colonel and Louis are making because I'm staying around."

It was the complete seriousness with which the American said the words that caused Newkirk to shiver. "Don't say that."

"Peter," Kinch held the Englander's gaze with his own to impart the absoluteness of his conviction, "I will _not_ let the Colonel put me before the mission. It's too important and you know that."

"It won't come to that," Newkirk argued. "It won't."

"Then this will be very hard for you to hear," Füchschen interrupted. Both men turned to her and were surprised to see her eyes glistening with repressed tears elicited by their loyalty towards one another. "Very hard for you to hear indeed."

Author's Note:

My apologies for the time it took to get this chapter up. An explanation is in order. Due to the reviews I've been getting, I've decided to completely change the ending of this story. That means that the previous, pre-written ending must be scrapped and the time-consuming but worthwhile job of rewriting it must commence. My job, which keeps me 18-types of busy, severely infringes on my writing time, but I will endeavor to update at least every 2 weeks until the story is finished.

As a forewarning, the original ending was much campier (a la the spirit of the show) than the now-planned ending.

I would also like to thank everyone for their continued support and understanding. Hopefully the new ending will be worth the wait and give everyone the answers they want!

Up Next:

The definition of "common good" varies from person to person. It all depends on your definition of a lie.


	7. Chapter 7

Note: I changed the original ending of this story because of reviewer feedback. Why stop now? Here's the changed (and significantly better because of ya'lls input) version of Chapter 7. Changes begin at the line of asterisk.

Chapter 7

In which some hard decisions are made, and none of them by Hogan

Newkirk looked towards the door, noticing it standing an inch ajar. Without a word he moved towards it and swung it open to face the questioning faces of his barracks mates. Carter's eyes captured his and demanded, in their own gentle and irresistible way, some sort of explanation. Newkirk could not give him one.

"Watch the windows, would you?" he asked evasively, protectively. "The last thing we need right now is an unwanted visit from the Krauts, even the ones we like."

"Newkirk…."

"Just watch, Andrew."

There was something in his friend's voice that made him comply, something that Carter had never heard in it before. It was only much later that he would identify the emotion he heard underscoring Newkirk's words: despair. Carefully and quietly, the Corporal closed the door to Hogan's room, confident that Carter's honest nature would keep him from listening in.

Kinch nodded in approval at Newkirk's actions. If Füchschen's reaction was any indication, the news she was about to give was not something he wanted Carter to hear. He knew Carter looked up to him, envied his strength and serenity, and he had to admit that a part of him thrived on the adoration. He did not want to disillusion the young man by showing weakness. The war had already done enough shattering of Carter's dreams.

"Doctor," the sick man prodded calmly. "What's the diagnosis?"

She looked at the two men in front of her and ran a hand over her eyes. If they could remain calm and professional, the least she could do was reciprocate. "A simple test will confirm my suspicions, but the odds of me being mistaken are minimal. You have contracted tuberculosis."

"And the prognosis?" Kinch pressed when she hesitated to go on.

"It's…it's most likely terminal."

Their reactions were subdued, much to her surprise. The dark-skinned man nodded, as if his own suspicions had finally been confirmed. The other man closed his eyes tightly, his mind whirring through the ramifications of the information. He could not fathom how the team would survive such a crushing blow. He had a feeling it wouldn't.

"How long?" Kinch asked calmly, as if merely asking London to repeat a transmission to double check his accuracy. It appeared to Newkirk that his comrade could not, or possibly would not, process the information. A closer look at his comrade changed his mind, however, when he noticed how tightly the sergeant's hands were clasped together above the blanket that covered his lower body. Even his firm grip could not stop his hands from shaking.

"It depends on the time of infection, which could have happened at any time. Many times carriers of tuberculosis have harbored the virus for years, dormant, unaware that they could pass on an active form to someone else. With the turnover rate in the _stalags_ and the shuffling of personnel and prisoners that happens on a daily basis there's no telling where it came from," she explained, carefully avoiding an answer to his true question. She should have known that someone as thorough and methodological as Padua would catch her evasion.

Disentangling his hands, he laid one supportively over hers which fidgeted nervously in her lap. '_He's so strong,' _she thought admiringly. Life truly was cruel and arbitrary at times.

"Doctor," he prompted again, "how long?"

"A year, a week--it is hard to know. It depends on too many factors. It appears that you will survive this attack which brought me here in the first place. There is no telling when you will lose the war."

Digesting the doctor's words left a sour feeling in Newkirk's stomach that he doubted would ever leave. As he mulled over Füchschen's words he, of all people, remembered a turn of phrase that gave him hope. His close association with Carter must have rubbed off on him. "You said 'most likely terminal' before. Does that mean there is a cure?"

Füchschen looked at him pityingly, taking no pleasure in deflating his optimism. "I have heard of a vaccine being developed in France. Before the war there were promising results but…"

"We'll get it," Newkirk assured her, tightly grasping the opportunity to do something to fight the nightmare he saw developing. His hands balled into determined fists at his side. "If there's a way, we'll find it."

"I hope you do," Füchschen replied, trying to hide her disbelief. These men were miracle workers, to be sure, but some things were unequivocally impossible. She knew the state of Nazi controlled medical research, at home and in occupied territories. The health and welfare of the sick was the very least of its concerns. Nevertheless, she also knew the power of a placebo, physical or mental, and could not bring herself to tell him of her doubt.

"Newkirk," the RAF man looked over at the sound of his name and found himself staring into Kinch's intense gaze. "Can I trust you?"

It seemed like a strange question, but Newkirk answered without hesitation. "What are you talking about, mate? Of course you can."

*****

Kinch smiled slightly at his friend's affronted tone, but it did not reach his eyes. He was about to ask Newkirk to do one of the most difficult things he could imagine. "Then I need you and Dr. Füchschen to do something for me."

Newkirk couldn't help but mirror the sick man's strained smile, knowing how hard it was for Kinch to ask for help. Of course he would help track down and recover the cure, regardless of the personal danger. But that didn't mean he couldn't appreciate watching Kinch humble his pride a bit to ask him.

Filled with his assumptions of what would happen next, Newkirk was completely dumbfounded when Kinch requested, "Don't tell the Colonel about this, not yet. Let me tell him. And…let's wait to tell Lebeau and Carter. Okay?"

"What are you talking about? Not tell Andrew and Louis? Why shouldn't I? Don't you think they have the right to know?" Newkirk demanded loudly. If he had been in the same position as his non-com friends he would be furious upon learning that Kinch had kept something so important from him. It almost gave the impression that…Kinch didn't trust them. By proxy, it hurt.

Though she was more subdued, Füchschen's disbelief was just as strong. "Your Colonel needs to be kept apprised of this situation. As talented as you may be in the coordination of espionage, I believe I would be the best to explain the situation to Hogan." she tried to reason. "As for your friends, I hazard to guess that it would cause more problems than it would solve to keep them ignorant. They want to help you. Let them."

Kinch shook his head, unsurprised and touched by the vehemence of their reactions. It wasn't that he disagreed with them. Rather, he had another, more pressing, agenda that trumped their rationales. "Peter, my good friend, sit down," Kinch gestured towards the only available seat left on top of Hogan's trunk, "and let me explain. Then you can decide what you're going to do."

Newkirk hesitated, aware of the subtle word games Kinch could play when given the opportunity. He had seen it work countless times on unsuspecting German officers over the radio and, when it was absolutely necessary, against a certain stubborn Colonel. He had no doubts that it could work against him as well. With the doctor's prognosis still reverberating in his mind, however, he knew he could not deny Kinch his simple request. He sat.

"Fine. Please explain your implied insult," the Englander huffed. Kinch raised his eyebrows in interest, prompting Newkirk to elaborate, "That Louis and Andrew are not important enough to be privy to your condition. And that I probably wouldn't either if I hadn't been in the right place at the right time." Füchschen placed a restraining hand on his knee and shot him warning look.

"Peter, I—"Kinch pausing to cough again, highlighting his condition. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. "Peter, I'm not doing this to offend you and I don't mean any insult to you, or Lebeau, or Carter. I'm doing this for me."

'_Lair,'_ Newkirk thought, but opted not to interrupt. "_You're not doing this for yourself. I'd bet you're doing this for them, out of some perverse sense of protection. And I don't make bets I don't win._"

"But I also refuse to let everything we have worked for here become compromised because Carter and Lebeau are too distracted over a serum that may or may not exist. When they're distracted they tend to make mistakes. The Colonel…I only want to make sure that he knows that I expect no special treatment because of my condition. " He glanced over at Newkirk, "We both know the Colonel wouldn't let this go. Not unless I talk to him. He'll tear himself apart trying to decide whether to take the risk inherent in saving me, or live with the guilt of playing it safe. I need him to understand that the decision is not his to be made. It's London's—for the good of the mission. That's the most important thing: the mission."

"You are _part_ of the 'mission'," Newkirk argued. "When Hogan comes up with an outrageous plan, you keep him grounded enough to make it plausible and keep us believing that it will somehow work. If you're not around, do you really think that I, or Carter, or Lebeau can keep things under control? You're an idiot if you think so."

Kinch looked at him sharply. Unapologetically, Newkirk stared back, daring the sergeant to dispute him. But he couldn't. "I don't want to leave," Kinch admitted softly. "But it's not my decision. If we weren't at war, if we weren't in the Army, maybe it would be. But we are. And it's not my choice." They both knew it was true.

"And the Gov'nor? What you going to say to him? Are you going to lie and tell him you want to go home to make his decision easier?" Newkirk asked. The Colonel's job was to use all of his men to the best of their abilities to hamper the German war effort. If Kinch could no longer fulfill his duties, it was the Colonel's obligation as an officer to remove him from duty.

"Most people would jump at the chance to get out of this place," Kinch scoffed, finding the whole situation terribly ironic. "If you'd asked me during my six months here I know I would have left without a single glance back. I never thought," Kinch finally looked away, "that I would ever be able to make a difference on this kind of scale. I always wanted to, but…those kinds of opportunities don't come around for African Americans from Detroit."

"Or rotten con-men from Whitechapel," Newkirk interjected.

"Or disgraced daughters of communist dissidents from Düsseldorf," Füchschen added, reminding the men of her presence.

Kinch couldn't stop himself from grinning. "We're all loose ends here, aren't we?" he mused. Sobering, he continued with his original thought. "I don't want to be decommissioned into a semi-embalmed cocoon of safety in London. Not even for my own protection. Maybe I can devise a way of presenting things to him that don't seem quite so…hopeless. A way that doesn't send him into an obsessive quest for a cure but also doesn't force him to choose between me and the mission. I just need time to think of a plan that won't compromise anyone or anything. Please, don't take all of this away from me by talking to him before I've had a chance to come up with a plan."

"Kinch…I…" Newkirk punched the trunk he sat on, "Dammit! What am I supposed to say after something like that?"

"Say that you'll do what I ask. Just be patient, Peter."

Füchschen said nothing, knowing she would only interrupt the delicate moment. She would follow the lead established by the Englander. If he opted to tell the Colonel immediately, she would support him and explain everything to Hogan. If he vowed to let Kinchloe break the news in his own time, she would wait.

"You've known me long enough to know that patience is not my strongest suit. I honestly respect Colonel Hogan," Newkirk said slowly, judging each word he used carefully. "And I can't help but feel like I'm being a bit deceptive by not running down to him right now."

"But you won't."

The corporal sighed, closing his eyes tiredly. "No, I won't. I'll let you do it, and I'll keep your secret from two of my closest friends."

Kinch lay a hand on his British compatriot's knee, the only part he could reach from the bed, and squeezed it in thanks. "Not for long," Kinch reassured him. "Just until I can figure out what to do."

"And to keep everyone's mind on the mission," Newkirk added. "So they don't get hurt."

The doctor let out a deep breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The decision was made. '_Then why is my mind still in turmoil?_' she asked herself. Her heart answered without hesitation, _'Because I can't ignore that little voice that keeps insisting that Padua will die and none of this will really matter.'_

Despite her pessimism and the unease it caused her, the two men were the calmest she had seen since her arrival. Apparently what they needed was a course of action to give them direction, no matter what that direction might be. Once their course was set, there was no waffling. They were men of action. At least, they would be if a gigantic yawn didn't steal across the sergeant's face and Füchschen didn't notice her patient's eyes struggling to stay open. The emotion of the past hour had drained any energy he had stored from his long hours of sleep.

Reaching into her bag once again to recompile the injection that had been flung across the room earlier, she shot the Englander a look before ordering Kinch, "You, sir, need to rest. At present, there is nothing more that I can do. To confirm my hypothesis, I would like to inject you with tuberculin. In 48-hours you will need to check the injection site. If there is a bump under your skin," she took a deep breath to maintain her composure, "you have tested positive. Inform me immediately of the results. In the intervening time, I expect you to take care of yourself, recover your health as best you can, and take every precaution."

"Don't worry, Doctor, I'll make sure your orders are carried out to the letter," Newkirk assured her. He punched Kinch lightly in the shoulder. "For once I get to order you around."

Without missing a beat, Kinch punched him back with enough force to make Newkirk wince. "Don't let it go to your head," the sergeant chided.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Newkirk assured him. "It would corrupt my charming personality."

"Your what?" Kinch could not resist the dig. On a more serious note he added with his characteristic uncensored honesty, "Newkirk, thanks, for everything. Of all the men I expected to rely on, I'm not afraid to admit that you were not the highest on the list. I was wrong in my evaluation of you. You've been a good friend to me, Peter. I wish it hadn't taken me this long to realize it."

Newkirk smirked. "Any time, Old Man. It's been a long time coming, but I'm glad you've finally given in."

"Given in?" Kinch questioned as he sunk down to lay comfortably on the lumpy mattress again and bared his arm to the doctor.

Pausing dramatically, Newkirk waiting until Füchschen was poised and ready to insert the needle. As she inserted it, the Corporal added insult to injury by saying, "You told me once that you could 'handle' anything thrown at you, alone. I disagreed. You stormed out. Looks like you finally admit I was right."

Kinch rolled his eyes. "I suppose it was bound to happen eventually."

"And I'm honored, really."

"Me too."

In the companionable silence that followed, Füchschen packed up her things. She couldn't begin to claim that she understood them. Though she worked in an underground organization herself, the camaraderie she held with her compatriots was based on professionalism. Theirs was based on trust and, though she hesitated to label it as such, her heart knew that there was love involved as well. She was jealous.

"I must leave," she stated, standing. "But do not think I am abandoning you. As soon as I return to Düsseldorf I will use every resource I have to investigate the cure I have heard of in Paris. Perhaps if we are very lucky the Nazi's have exported it from France to somewhere in Germany. If so, I may be able to get it there. If not, I don't know what—"

As Newkirk led her towards the door, he interrupted her uncertainty with a stalwart, "If it exists and you find it, we'll get it. It doesn't matter where it is."

She looked at him skeptically, unaware of how elaborate and extensive their operation truly was. Kinch had already closed his eyes to rest, zoning out of the conversation and losing himself in his own thoughts. As Füchschen and Newkirk left Hogan's office, they tried to creep noiselessly across the room. Successful as they were, the mechanisms that lifted the false-bottom bunk woke some of the lightest sleepers. "Is everything okay?" Carter's soft voice eked out of the darkness.

"Of course," Füchschen's answer was a little too fast and a little too high pitched to be completely truthful. Luckily for them, Newkirk knew, Carter was not very adept at identifying the signs of deception. It came from his naturally trusting nature.

Peeking down into the abyss of the tunnels, Newkirk hesitated before bring the doctor down the ladder. When no immediate screams or smells of death surfaced, Newkirk assumed it was safe to descend. Whatever happened between Hogan and Lebeau must have passed over.

"Have a safe journey back," Carter wished her, "and thank you."

"Any time young man."

Carter rolled over on his mattress, away from the rest of the room. He didn't want Newkirk to see him in the darkness. If he did, the young man feared his own deception would be revealed. Still slightly miffed from his conversation with Hogan, he hadn't been able to keep himself from listen at the door to the Colonel's office. He didn't want to be left out of the loop, protected but unable to help, any more. Now, he wished he hadn't.

He knew, and if he tried to help, they would know he had been eavesdropping. They might never trust him again. The only thing worse than not knowing, he now knew, was knowing when wasn't supposed to. And there was nothing he could do about it.

Author's Note:

Sorry for the long delay. Real life and all that. Also, I blame the Whitechapel quip on watching the same special on Jack the Ripper 3 times within 5 hours. This week is WWII week, which means lots of video violence. Hopefully that stays out of the story in Chapter 8!

Next time:

Being the leader means you have to make the tough decisions. Decisions that can condemn a person's future. That's what we call responsibility. It's not fun.


	8. Chapter 8

To make up for the long delay, here's a long chapter courtesy of the spare time afforded by the holiday season. Also, this chapter has not been beta'ed, which makes all inevitable errors my sole property.

* * *

Chapter 8: Tough Decisions

In which honest and frank discussions lead to some necessary decisions.

"What's the prescription, Doctor?" Füchschen started, rounding a corner in the labyrinth of tunnels under the camp and nearly colliding with Colonel Hogan on his way back to the bunk room. He grabbed her shoulders, steadying her, and took the opportunity to look into her eyes for a response. There was nothing more telling than the speed with which she glanced away from his penetrating gaze.

"It's too early to determine anything conclusively," she responded elusively, putting on her most professional demeanor in an attempt to cover her unease. "I was able to talk with Sergeant Kinchloe and, with his consent, will continue to monitor his progress through radio communication. You may be heartened to know, Colonel, that Sergeant Kinchloe's condition appeared to improve markedly as I examined him."

If Hogan hadn't been working with his crew for the past two years, she might have pulled off the evasion. However, the Colonel had learned to read the subtle nuances of his men's expressions long ago, and he caught Newkirk's slight side-long glance at the doctor. That same twitch of the eyes had saved their lives during countless Gestapo interrogations and sticky situations when caught incognito. It told Hogan something was amiss with the German woman's words, something he was confident he could wheedle out of Newkirk later.

Despite her subterfuge, Hogan responded sincerely, "Thank you, Doctor. It's nice to know Kinch may be on the mend."

Neither Füchschen nor Newkirk acknowledged his comment. Doing so would be too close to lying. Instead, the Englander led the Doctor to the base of their outside tunnel and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Hogan followed at a suspicious, evaluative distance.

"We'll keep in touch," Newkirk promised.

She smiled, touched rather than insulted by his actions as she would have been upon her arrival. After witnessing the Englander's discussion with Kinch, she knew the unspoken words behind his farewell. _'I trust you to look after him, even if it is from afar. It is a trust not easily given. Don't let me down.'_

She smiled, answering silently, _'You worries are unnecessary. If anyone can save him, we can.'_

Falling back on protocol, Hogan interrupted and informed her, "Lebeau is outside waiting for you. He will put you back in contact with the Underground who will get you home." The secret communications between the two were beginning to unnerve and, if he was honest, annoy him. The sooner he could get Newkirk alone the quicker he could pump him for information about what was really going on.

"I expect to hear from you immediately if there are any changes in Padua's condition," Füchschen ordered, finally looking into Hogan's eyes. "Do not wait. If you do…."

"I understand." Hogan stepped forward and held out his hand. The doctor could see the sincere protectiveness he had for his men in his eyes. She felt her heart twinge as she thought of the crushing reality he would face as he saw one of his men die.

'_No,'_ she thought, taking strength from the determination she saw in the prisoners' faces. _'There is time as long as he is alive. God, he has done so much for us, and has the ability to do so much more, that you cannot take him away from us. It would not be fair.'_

Füchschen forced a smile onto her face and heartily shook the proffered hand. "Be careful," she said sincerely.

"You too," he took the hand still in his grasp and laid it on the ladder rung to the outside. Taking the hint, and with one last look in Newkirk's direction, she ascended.

The hatch opened and closed silently on well oiled joints. As soon as the glow from the waxing moon disappeared Hogan turned on the Corporal still standing beside him. "All right, Newkirk. Spill it. What aren't you telling me?"

"Colonel, I don't know—"

"Newkirk. Now."

The Englishman shook his head, accustomed to the cultural propensity of Americans to demand what they wanted, heedless of the consequences. As a rule, they did not take 'no' for an answer very well. Hogan especially. Playing a card he rarely did, Newkirk straightened his shoulders, stared straight ahead and said, "Sir, unless you make it a direct order, I will honor Kinch's request that you speak only to him about the situation." Unable to maintain his strict military bearing for long he added with a smirk, "Of course, if you order me to talk you'll still probably be out of luck, if we're all being honest with one another."

Hogan rubbed at his temples, complaining, "So this is what mutiny feels like."

"Not mutiny," Newkirk corrected, "Loyalty—to a friend and comrade."

"Right," Hogan acceded. "But that doesn't help the feeling in my gut."

Wisely, Newkirk stayed silent. Knowing how stubborn the Englishman could be, Hogan did not press him any further. In any case, he would have to confront Kinch eventually. He would have an advantage if he could go in having respected the black man's request to speak only to him. "I may as well get this done and over with," he mumbled, trying to motivate himself. "Then we can come up with a plan."

It was eerily silent in the common room when Hogan hauled himself over the lip of the bed frame. Cater was awake he knew, as indicated by the cadence of his breathing, but his face was turned towards the wall. The shuffling of people to and fro from the camouflage bunk, coupled with his anxiousness over Kinch, had probably awakened him. The rest of the men had learned long ago how to sleep through the comings and goings of the espionage troupe and were not disturbed. A weak light seeped out from under the door to his private quarters. Mustering the scattered confidence he usually overflowed with, Hogan knocked lightly on his office door and announced himself.

"Kinch? It's Hogan."

There was a pause he did not know how to interpret before he heard the welcome sound of Kinch's voice saying, "Come on in, Colonel."

"I don't think it's necessary for you to knock," Kinch was sitting up, propped against the plywood wall. "This is your room."

Hogan shrugged, put at ease by the playful, if weak, tone of his Sergeant's voice. "It's yours for as long as you need it," he assured and sat in the seat vacated earlier by the Doctor. Not known for procrastination, Hogan took a deep breath and plunged into the conversation hinted at by Newkirk. "What are we up against, Kinch?"

"Tuberculosis." There was no hesitation, no wavering in the Sergeant's voice.

"My God…."

Looking down at his arm, Kinch continued, "Füchschen couldn't confirm it immediately, but we'll know conclusively by tomorrow. Not that it matters. We both know it's true. All the evidence points in that direction."

Kinch approached most situations through the analysis of evidence and use of, not shying away from whatever conclusions they led to. It was his ability to dispassionately evaluate situations that Hogan valued in him. He wished, however, that this once his right-hand man didn't have to sound so certain about what he knew. "What did Dr. Füchschen suggest as a course of action?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"There is a promising rumor of a cure in France," informed him, carefully trying to keep his voice neutral. "Füchschen promised to look into it when she returned to Düsseldorf and report anything she found."

"I'll contact Tiger," Hogan hopped up from his seat any began to pace, to plot. "If it's there, she'll be able to find it. From there Dubois could deliver it here. Or Lebeau could get to Paris to bring it back. If we are incredibly lucky, some intelligencia from the medical community will have escaped to England before Dunkirk. Goldilocks may have the information we need."

Kinch watched his C.O.'s eyes bright with anticipation as his brain churned out possibilities to solve the dilemma before him. Hogan thrived on a good challenge.

"That's not the least of it," Kinch interrupted, startling Hogan out of his planning. "Tuberculosis is not only fatal if left untreated, but also highly contagious. Colonel," Kinch took a deep breath, steadying his heart, "it's not safe for me to stay here. If I do, I endanger the entire mission and the lives of every man in this camp."

His words stopped Hogan stone cold in his pacing. "What are you suggesting?"

"A transfer."

"No," Hogan shook his head definitively.

"Colonel…" Kinch could see Hogan tuning him out. "Robert," he tried again.

The use of his first name caught Hogan's attention. Kinch never called him by his first name. First names were rare in the military and unheard of between a non-com and an officer. Sitting down again, he placed a hand on his radioman's shoulder. "Kinch, we can do this. It's our job and we will finish it, but you need to be here."

"I _want_ to be here," the Sergeant argued, holding in a cough, "but it isn't safe. You don't know how long it could take to get the vaccine to Stalag 13, if it can be found at all. Every minute risks more exposure to the men here. If you arrange for a transfer and have the truck hijacked by the Underground, I can stay in seclusion until we can come up with a more permanent solution."

Hogan looked into his subordinate's frank expression. Part of being a leader was knowing when sacrifices had to be made and facing them resolutely. He hated that part of the job. "If you go, you can never come back."

"I know."

Hogan smiled weakly, the only sign he had given in. It was all Kinch needed to know. He had learned to read Hogan's expressions effortlessly over the years. "You'd make a good officer, Kinch. You've got what it takes. You make the hard decisions and you don't second guess yourself. Men would follow you."

"Thanks, Colonel," Kinch absorbed the words and intent behind Hogan's compliments. "You once told me that part of your job as an officer was to teach us grunts a thing or two. I learned from the best. If it's all right with you, I'll always consider myself one of your men."

"I'd be honored."

They sat in companionable silence for some time, each lost in their thoughts of an uncertain future. As morning came light from the searchlights was diluted by the rising sun and the sounds of pre-roll call movement could be heard from beyond the Colonel's door.

As the zero-hour for morning formation approached, Hogan broke the silence. "Do you want to tell the others, or would you rather I did?"

"I will," Kinch assured him, though he did not relish the thought. He might not survive until the transfer if one of his friends got to him first for deserting the operation, however unwillingly. "But…I need a little time to decide on what I'm going to say. If I don't, I'm afraid they might be able to convince me to stay."

Hogan wanted to tell him how much he wished his men would be able to, but reminding Kinch of what could not be would be cruel.

Pounding on the bunks outside and tell-tale shouting from Schultz brought Hogan to his feet. He turned to the door, at a loss for words as his brain automatically began to formulate a plan to finagle Klink into granting the prisoner move he wanted. Luftstalag 9 was the best bet, with the trail to their sister camp laced with Germans sympathetic to the Allied cause. He was startled to hear a dull thump behind him.

Turning, he saw that Kinch had swung him legs onto the floor and was tightly grasping the vertical support of the bed in preparation for hauling himself onto his feet. "Kinch…?"

"I thought I might want to put in an appearance," he explained at Hogan's baffled expression. "I promise to keep my viruses to myself. I just...thought it might put some fears to rest after the Doctor's visit if I got out."

'_No,'_ Hogan couldn't be tricked, _'You want to be with them. I understand. They'll want to be with you too.'_

"Then you might want to get out there before roll call is over," Hogan joked lightly, hauling his subordinate to his feet and steadying him as he struggled to regain his equilibrium. "We'd both better move before Schultz comes and makes himself comfortable as your nursemaid."

Kinch grimaced. "I always had visions of nurses with a bit less…girth. And a lot more femininity."

Hogan laughed, opening the door. He watched the black man's hesitant steps carefully, ready to intervene if he should falter but also reluctant to do so. Kinch wanted his comrades to see him on the mend, an opinion that would not be encouraged if Hogan physically supported him. The reaction from the men was immediate and heartwarming.

"Hey Kinch! Nice to see you on your feet again!"

"Finally decided to join the ranks again? Good riddance to you, man!"

The peculiar brand of welcome came from every corner of the room and continued as men shuffled out the door. Schultz walked up to the pair, worry plain in his expression. "Are you sure you should be out of bed, Sergeant Kinchloe? You do not look very good."

"I'm fine, Schultzie, just need a little bit of fresh air. I thought I would join everybody for roll call. I was beginning to miss it."

"Miss it? Jolly joker," he scoffed, then evaluated him skeptically. "If you are sure…."

Pulling himself up to his full height and smiling disarmingly under his bushy mustache, Kinch promised the guard, "I'm sure, but thanks for the concern."

Schultz didn't look convinced, but an insistent push propelled him out of the way and out the door before he could comment further. The source of the push was Lebeau, his face beaming with an irrepressible grin despite the fact that he should have been exhausted from the reaming given to him by Hogan and his nighttime excursions leading Füchschen back to the Underground.

"Hi, Louis. You doing okay?"

"_Mon ami_," words seemed to fail him and, as men often do in such situations, he reverted to action. In the French fashion, he reached up and kissed Kinch on both cheeks. The movement surprised the Sergeant. "I am very happy to see you," Lebeau said with uncharacteristic understatement.

"It's good to be seen," Kinch responded, showing his own fondness by putting a hand on his French friend's shoulder and squeezing it.

Hogan didn't want to interrupt the moment, but the regimented clock of prison life beckoned. "Come on guys. Roll call. Let's get to it."

"Yes sir," Kinch kept his hand on Lebeau's shoulder. The Frenchman assumed it was his friend's way of reassuring him that he was not going anywhere. In reality, Kinch knew it was his own way of trying to remember every last detail of his life and the people in Stalag 13. Soon he would never see it again.

Roll call came and went relatively quickly with Klink walking down the line and acknowledging Kinch's return to the formation with a curt, "It's about time all of your men decided to join us."

Hogan didn't miss a beat. "Kinch was getting lonely with only Schultz to keep him company."

Klink huffed, but didn't miss the concerned glance the American Colonel threw behind him at the man in question. In sympathy, the Commandant dismissed the men after they had been counted, even though he had prepared a morale-crushing speech about the evitable failure of the Allied cause in the face of German superiority. For some reason he wasn't surprised when Hogan shadowed him into the Kommandanture and his office.

"What do you want, Hogan?" he asked, dreading the answer. His response to the Senior P.O.W officer's last request had disturbed them both and he had a feeling that his ordeals were not over.

As often as Hogan's expression was inscrutable or intentionally misleading, he was especially stonewalled as he began to speak in clipped phrases. "I warned you about the possibility of an epidemic the last time I was here. Well, I was right. Wilson checked out some possibilities and it looks like tuberculosis. Kinch needs to be moved to better medical facilities."

"Hogan," Klink buried his head in his hands, "I told you before. He cannot go to a hospital."

"Then what about Stalag 9?" Hogan argued. "It's three times larger than Stalag 13—big enough to have a medical barrack for prisoners. Kinch could be sent there and quarantined. I've heard they have a staff sergeant who was a civilian surgeon. He'd be in much better hands there."

"Sergeant Kinchloe is one of your tight-knit group," Klink paused, mulling over the prospect, "and you are willing to break that apart?"

"To help him? Without hesitation."

Considering how many times Hogan had fought to keep the residents of Barracks 2 consistent, the fact that he was promoting a change was stunning. It also impressed upon Klink the severity of the situation. Picking up a pen from his desk, he opened up a desk draw and began rummaging through it.

"Commandant…?" Hogan didn't want to press to hard.

"The transfer paperwork will take some time. Send Helga in when you leave, Hogan. She can help."

At that moment Hogan vowed he would not steal any cigars from Klink's humidor for at least a year. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

"It's not a guarantee, Hogan," Klink felt the need to remind him.

"I know, but, for once, I will leave you to your paperwork."

Klink smirked. It was a strange relationship he had with Hogan. One that he hoped he would have the opportunity to analyze and perhaps write a book about after the war when he was ensconced in a life of retired luxury in a beach house on the Riviera, or a mountain villa in the Bavarian Alps.

Returning to the barracks, Hogan entered to see an abandoned bowl of Schultz's soup teetering precariously on the corner of the table. The door to his office was open and he could hear animated voices and light, suppressed coughing from inside. Peeking in, he saw Kinch sitting on the bunk, nursing a cup of steaming coffee, with his chess board carefully set up on the cover of his trunk that had been pulled from its space under the window. Carter was studying the board carefully, with Newkirk and Lebeau behind him offering suggestions. At his raised eyebrows Kinch explained, "Carter asked me to teach him how to play. Maybe he's going to start challenging you, Colonel."

'_And replace you as my sparing partner,'_ Hogan filled in.

Carter stared fastidiously at the board, afraid to look up. _'No, it's because I want to spend some time with you, Kinch. I want to learn from you. I want to be as strong, and as smart—no, wise—as you are. I want to grow up a little, to show you how much I've changed since I've known you. So you don't have to worry about me and…maybe you'll be okay with me doing a little of the 'looking after' you've always done around here once you're gone,'_ Carter thought, struggling to focus on the nuances of the game amidst his own private misery. His secret, his knowledge, was tearing his heart apart.

Leaving the majority of his men to puzzle out the impossible tactics of beating Kinch at chess, Hogan drew Newkirk aside. "I need you to get on the radio," he whispered, careful not to incur the interest of the other men. "Contact Goldilocks, Tiger, our Underground contacts, anyone who might have access to the cure we need for Kinch. I want options by the end of the day."

"You got it, Colonel," Newkirk acknowledged. Secluding himself in the radio room would give him the opportunity to escape from the strange looks Carter had been throwing his direction all day. He hated keeping a secret from his friend which made it increasingly unnerving to have Carter look at him as if he knew Newkirk was keeping something from him.

The day wore on with Hogan forbidding himself from interrupting Newkirk. He lasted four hours and twenty-seven minutes. A personal best when he had nothing to do but watch Kinch interact with the men as if nothing had changed or ever would. All of the acting skills the Sergeant had honed through their espionage activities were now turned on his comrades with devastating effectiveness.

Descending into the radio room he saw Newkirk listening to someone on the other end of the radio line. It must be a regular contact, Hogan knew, if they could talk in real-time rather than Morse. Knowing better than to interrupt, the American officer watched as a Red Cross pencil bent and then snapped in Newkirk's hand. His frustration exploded as he tore off Kinch's headset and threw it as far as the connecting wire allowed. Hogan picked it up and carefully set it on the communication table.

"I'll keep this as our little secret," he quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

"What?" Newkirk demanded, momentarily forgetting where he was and who he was talking to.

"If Kinch saw you abusing his equipment, he'd knock you into next week. And I don't think I'd stop him."

Newkirk pounded his balled up fists on the desk, his voice strained as he refused to look up at his C.O. "The French Underground said they would work on it, but it wasn't 'high priority' with the liberation of France around the bend. Tiger said her cell would do everything they could, but she's overwhelmed with missions as one of the head coordinators of German weapons cache neutralization. Between the Blitz and war effort London barely knows what it has and where it is. Goldilocks said she would scrounge for me, but not to expect anything for three weeks. Three bloody weeks! Kinch could be dead by then!"

"He might, and he might not. Dr. Füchschen didn't give us a specific date. Don't give up on him yet."

"I'm not giving up," Newkirk argued, "but I'm not going to pretend something could happen when I know it won't."

In his heart, Hogan dreaded the realization that Newkirk might be right. That no matter what they did it wouldn't change anything. _'But you still have to do something, even if it's hopeless,'_ his mind reminded him.

"You're right," Hogan said, surprising the Corporal. Newkirk had expected, even wanted, a good argument with Hogan to let off some steam. He did not want the Colonel agreeing with his fatalistic opinions.

"What?" he asked for the second time in as many minutes.

"Maybe there is nothing we can do," Hogan explained, "but I'll be damned if I let one of my men go without a fight."

That was the commanding officer Newkirk had come to depend on. "You're right. Sorry, Colonel."

"Don't thank me yet," Hogan warned him. "It's going to get worse before it gets better."

Newkirk looked at him quizzically, sure that there was something Hogan knew that he didn't. Realization dawned on him and he asked quietly, "Kinch told you not tell us something, didn't he? There seems to be a lot of that going around right now."

"He'll tell you when he's ready," Hogan assured him, not quite sure what else he could say.

"It's not me I'm worried about," Newkirk looked up, past the reinforced dirt ceilings, to his comrades above. "If it's what I think it is, we might lose Louis and Andrew, at least for a time."

Hogan said nothing to confirm or deny Newkirk's evaluation, aware of the confidence Lebeau had taken him into when describing the emotional fallout from the loss of his French compatriots. It seemed like ages ago that Lebeau had revealed how desperate he was not to lose another friend to the war, though in reality it had been less than 24-hours. When Kinch was transferred, he could only hope that Lebeau would see it as an opportunity to save his friend, not lose him.

Carter, he knew, would also struggle with his perceived powerlessness to stop the situation from spiraling out of their control. If there was anyone on his team most dedicated to achieving the impossible, it was the helplessly optimistic Midwesterner. Hogan would rely on Newkirk's status as best friend and big brother to coax Carter out of the depression that would surely follow Kinch's departure.

But he wouldn't die. That was what mattered. They were getting Kinch to a place where he, and they, would be safe until the vaccination could be procured. That had to count for something. It had to be enough to keep his visions of a broken, inconsolable squad of once powerfully effective men from coming true.

Desperate to find a silver lining to the entire situation, Hogan buoyed himself with the thought that he would see his right-hand man again--on liberation day. "We'll get through this," Hogan reassured himself and Newkirk.

"It does help when we don't have a choice." The comment made Hogan snort. It was as close to positive as Newkirk got.

"Colonel Hogan? Colonel Hogan! Oh! There you are," Carter's voice filtered into the radio room as he poked his head around the corner. Afraid he was interrupting something important, he cast his eyes downward shyly and said, "Kinch wants to talk to you."

"Thanks for delivering the message," Hogan walked over and patted the young man on the shoulder as he headed towards the ladder. "And Newkirk, I think we're finished here for now. Come back upstairs when everything is back in order."

"You got it, Gov'nor," Newkirk put on his best innocent face at Carter's curious gaze.

To escape from his friend's hang-dog expression, Newkirk traightened up the radio station, looking woefully at the pencil he had broken and placing the two halves back in the recycled tin can holder. As he puttered, he watched Carter carefully out of the corner of his eye. The young man was digging his boot into the dirt floor throwing guilty glances in Newkirk's direction. After de-powering the radio set and retracting the antenna he finally demanded, "What's got you all in a twist, Carter?"

"N-Nothing."

Newkirk shot him a look of insulted disbelief. "Really? Then do you mind not staring at me? It's annoying."

"Sorry, Newkirk," he turned to leave, shoulders slumped in defeat. "I'll leave you alone."

Sighing dramatically, Newkirk grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shoved him onto the radio stool. "Just tell me what is eating you up. That's an order."

"You can't order me what to do," Carter argued petulantly, automatically reverting to the playful banter he was accustomed to engaging in with Newkirk. "We're not even in the same Army."

Newkirk scoffed. "Fine. If you don't want to tell me, then leave."

Carter didn't move. A long tense silence followed. "I want to tell you," Carter admitted finally, "but you'll think less of me when I do."

It was an unlikely assumption, considering the soft spot Newkirk had in his heart for the American. Nevertheless, Newkirk admitted, "Maybe, but at least I won't be annoyed with you."

Another long pause developed as the Corporal waited patiently for Carter to break down. He knew him well enough to know it was inevitable. "I…know about Kinch."

"What do you mean?" Newkirk encouraged gently.

"I-I overheard you talking to him with Dr. Füchschen. I know he could…he might…that he's dying."

Newkirk exhaled dramatically, which Carter interpreted as a condemnation. "I didn't mean to spy on you guys! Honest! It just happened!"

"I'm not angry at you, Andrew," Newkirk assured him, using his first name to reinforce his words. "I can't be, because I know I would have done the same thing in your place. Kinch will probably be upset, and it's his right for you not telling him what you know, but he'll forgive you. In fact, it'll make things easier on him in the long run. Now all he'll have to do is tell Lebeau."

Carter winced. "That won't be easy."

"I don't envy it," Newkirk agreed, "just like I don't envy you having to tell Kinch what you did."

Carter nodded miserably, "I know I should."

"Then get to it," Newkirk moved towards the exit, expecting Carter to follow. "I'm going to go upstairs for a rest and you are going to talk to Kinch."

"You're right. I don't want…just in case Kinch doesn't make it, I don't want him leaving without telling him the truth." Newkirk swung an arm over his friend's shoulder, showing his approval and sympathy. In his mind, though, he could not help but think of happier times when kind young men like Carter were ignorant of the uglier side of death: when it wasn't a release, but a theft.

Throughout Carter and Newkirk's conversation, Hogan had exited the tunnel, re-triggering the hatch which had been lowered to ensure secrecy. One of the Watchers must have seen a nosey Kraut wandering around. When he emerged, Lebeau was waiting for him with his arms crossed over his chest. "_Colonél_," he began, "Schultz is in your office. He said he had something to tell you and Kinch from Commandant Klink."

"Thanks, Lebeau," Hogan interrupted quickly, hoping to stave off the questions he knew were coming. He wasn't fast enough.

"What is happening?" the Frenchman demanded, interposing himself between the Colonel and his destination. "Ever since last night, no one has told me anything. Not Dr. Füchschen, not you, and not Newkirk. What is so bad that you will not tell me?"

Hogan closed his mouth to a thin line, refraining from answering immediately. Rather than coming up with a diversion, he decided to rely on the truth. "I'd like to tell you, Louis, but Kinch wants to tell you himself. He owes you that much for your friendship."

"He owes me nothing!" Lebeau countered.

"No," Hogan corrected him, "he does. You've done more to help him than you realize. That's why he isn't willing to dilute the responsibility of telling you himself. Just give him time."

Lebeau bowed his head, allowing Hogan the opportunity to sidestep him and walk toward the door. "Yes, _Colonél_. Only…"

Hogan hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

"Tell him I am concerned about him."

"I will," Hogan assured him. Without further comment, he opened the door to his quarters, entered, and firmly shut the door behind him.

Kinch and Schultz looked up at him as he entered, one still relegated to the bottom bunk and the other standing and shifting unhappily beside it. "Lebeau's worried about you. He wants to know what is going on. You should talk to him," Hogan announced without preamble.

"I know," Kinch's gaze did not waver from his commanding officer's, "but first Schultz has news."

Hogan nodded at Schultz, whose doe-like eyes were wide with sadness. He knew he shouldn't be upset to deliver his information, but he couldn't help it. "Colonel Klink wanted me to tell you that the transfer came in. _Frauline_ Helga called Stalag 9 and explained the situation. Sergeant Kinchloe is ordered to pack whatever personal items he has, say his goodbyes, and be ready to leave tomorrow at 0930."

Though he had been expecting it, the news still hit Hogan like sledgehammer in the chest. He couldn't speak. A part of him didn't want to surrender to the fact that Kinch was leaving.

"Thank you, Schultz," Kinch acknowledged the news in the awkward silence that followed. "If you don't mind, I think you should leave."

"_Jawohl_, Sergeant Kinchloe. I will see you at roll call tonight?"

"I wouldn't miss it," the black man assured him.

Grateful for the dismissal, Schultz scurried from the room, desperately dodging the curious looks he elicited from the men of Barracks 2 with a whimpering, "I know nothing!"

Kinch, thinking that Hogan was still trapped in the paralysis the information had initially caused him, opened his mouth to say something when Hogan interjected with, "I need to send Newkirk back downstairs to contact Cinderella about the pick-up."

"Colonel…."

"Schultz and Langensheidt should transport you. They can be overpowered without any violence."

Kinch tried again. "Colonel."

"They can set you up with a radio. That way we can contact you as soon as we have any additional information and you can stay in contact with Dr. Füchschen."

"Colonel!" Hogan looked at his radioman in shock. Kinch had raised his voice a handful of times during their association and never to his superior officer. Along with calling his C.O. by his first name, this was a day of firsts.

"Colonel," Kinch began again, his voice calm. Then, he said the last thing Hogan expected. "Thank you, for everything."

Hogan shook his head negatively. "No, Kinch, thank you. I don't know how this operation would have gotten off the ground without you, much less survived. I don't know how it's going to go on without you."

"It will go on because you are here," Kinch told him emphatically. "Not me. You are the brains of this organization."

'_And you are the heart, the deep thrumming beat that keeps the others in time and the driving force that keeps all of the disparate parts working in concert,'_ Hogan thought, but didn't say. It was the last thing Kinch needed to hear because it would make leaving that much harder.

"Now, go organize what needs to be organized. I want a safe trip."

"First class," Hogan assured him, "and I'd like to send in Lebeau and Carter to talk to you if you're up to it."

Hogan saw the disquiet that stole across the Sergeant's face despite Kinch's attempts to squash it. "I may as well get it done and over with," he said resignedly.

Hogan left the room, his face a careful study in neutrality. Carter was coming up from the tunnels, Newkirk behind him, and Hogan couldn't help but notice that his youngest saboteur looked a bit pale. Lebeau was sitting cross-legged on his bunk. All three were looking at him expectantly. Hogan took a deep breath to steady himself before announcing, "Carter, Lebeau--Kinch wants to talk to you."

Lebeau wasted no time in vaulting down from his bunk and rushing towards the office. Carter followed significantly more slowly with a parting look of worry towards Newkirk. The Englishman walked up to Hogan's side.

"He's going to tell them the diagnosis," Newkirk guessed, glancing to his left for confirmation from Hogan. He got it in the form of a curt nod. "And that he's leaving," he added.

When Hogan turned to look at him in unabashed surprise, Newkirk shrugged nonchalantly. "Kinch would never endanger the operation by staying. It's not in his nature. I knew from the minute he was diagnosed that he'd be leaving."

"Transferred to Stalag 9," Hogan confirmed, "tomorrow. We need to organize his pick up en route by the Underground so they can stash him in a secluded, secure place."

Newkirk turned around, obviously planning on returned to the radio room he had so recently left despite his exhaustion. Hogan's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Colonel?" he asked quietly.

"I'll take care of it," Hogan explained. "I need to. And they'll need you when they're done," he added, inclining his head towards his room.

Newkirk nodded, unaccustomed to assuming the role of the consoling friend. That was usually Carter's domain. He hoped he was up to the task of returning the favor. Pulling out his well worn deck of cards, he sat down and began shuffling them in earnest to pass the time. He had to stop almost as soon as he began when realized his hands were shaking too badly to continue.

Hogan could sympathize at the bottom of the underground ladder. As he descended, he assumed something must have been interfering with the ventilation of the shafts because the sooty air from the carbide lamps was bothering him. His eyes were stinging and wouldn't stop no matter how many times he wiped at them.

It hurt.

* * *

NOTE: I need to own up to an obvious plot hole in this chapter. Kinch makes a big 'to do' about leaving the camp ASAP to keep his TB from spreading. He then spends some quality bonding time with people. My excuses: (a) exposure does not equal contraction of a disease, even TB and (b) the story would be boring if one of the main characters was cooped up for the remainder of our tale. So…yeah. So be it.

NEXT: When the best laid plans of men often go astray. Not that it's anything new to the men of Barracks 2.


End file.
